She practices, my jealous wife, A cruelty refined; A sorcery by which she keeps Me exiled from my kind. If, evenings, I attend the club, My fellow-men will flee; If at a soiree I appear, No girl will sit by me. I pray, but to her face so mild -- Of look -- it only calls A siren smile. She keeps my clothes Done up in naphtha-balls. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOT SIX DIFFERENCES by MARVIN BELL FRAGMENTARY BLUE by ROBERT FROST BEFORE DAWN; SONNET by AMY LOWELL THE CHANT OF THE VULTURES by EDWIN MARKHAM CHARLES CARVILLE'S EYES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |