Shapes of Clay - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 76

TO MY LAUNDRESS.

Saponacea, wert thou not so fair I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins— For sending home my clothes all full of pins— A shirt occasionally that's a snare And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where, The Lord knows why—a sock whose outs and ins None know, nor where it ends nor where begins, And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share. But when I mark thy lilies how they grow, And the red roses of thy ripening charms, I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming. I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go Into the magic circle of thine arms, Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming.