V.
Housewife
Seraphic and relaxed, you take
Your novel with uncertain thumbs,
As one who lingers over cake
And dreads the thought of final crumbs.
Frown at my precious sorcery
And label me an envious elf.
If human beings could agree
Their boredom might revenge itself.
O youthful housewife, weighing grains
Of joy upon your empty smile,
The total of my bolder gains
Is but a more impressive guile.
Your serious child wins the alert
And limpid art of playing tag,
While your emotions rest inert
Like dried fruit in a paper bag.
And yet I envy both of you
And wish that I could also find
The mildness of your fancied view,
Where feelings dance and thoughts are kind.