POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Plump from Camembert and Clicquot, eye-lids
Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes.
"There is his picture," she said; "ask me whatever you will.
Take me as mistress or wife—it is yours to decide.
But take me as mistress and grow like the picture before you;
Take me as wife and be the good man you can be.
Choose me as mistress—how can I do less for you, dearest?
Or make me your wife—fate makes me your mistress or wife."
"I can leave you," I said. "You can leave me," she echoed;
"But how about hate in your heart?"
"You are right," I replied.
The company is now discussing the subject of love—
They seem to know little about it.
But my wife, who is sitting beside me, exclaims:
"Well, what is this jangle of madness and weakness?
What has it to do with poetry, tell me?"
"Well, it's life, Arabel. . . .
There's the story of Hamlet, for instance," I added
Then fell into silence.
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