Man and Wife

　　by Robert Lowell

　　 Tamed by Miltown， we lie on Mother's bed；

　　 the rising sun in war paint dyes us red；

　　 in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine，

　　 abandoned， almost Dionysian.

　　 At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street，

　　 blossoms on our magnolia ignite

　　 the morning with their murderous five days' white.

　　 All night I've held your hand，

　　 as if you had

　　 a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad

　　 its hackneyed speech， its homicidal eye

　　 and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite，

　　 clearest of all God's creatures， still all air and nerve：

　　 you were in our twenties， and I，

　　 once hand on glass

　　 and heart in mouth，

　　 outdrank the Rahvs in the heat

　　 of Greenwich Village， fainting at your feet

　　 too boiled and shy

　　 and poker-faced to make a pass，

　　 while the shrill verve

　　 of your invective scorched the traditional South.

　　 Now twelve years later， you turn your back.

　　 Sleepless， you hold

　　 your pillow to your hollows like a child；

　　 your old-fashioned tirade

　　 loving， rapid， merciless

　　 breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head