h she tired of years before,--
Collecting Vases, Fans, and Spoons galore,--
Did not affect the Comfort of our Home,
Therefore there was no reason to be Sore.

VII

But now each time I come back to the House
I find what was my former loving Spouse
So deep absorbed in Omar's Rubaiyat,
She reads right on, and scarcely does Arouse.

VIII

Or else I find her with her Pen in Hand,
Grinding out Quatrains which mayhap are Grand,
She tries to make me Listen: Rest assured
That I obey Not any such Command.

IX

Had I but known just what my Fate would be,
Inside a Drawer to which I hold the Key,
That Book forever would have Disappeared
And thereby would have gained some Peace for Me.

X

But ah, the Irony of Fate--that's how
"A Book of verses underneath the Bough"
Is what I hear from Morn to Dewy Eve.
A Wilderness _were_ Paradise just Now.

XI

Sometimes when I am very tired, and Plead
To be amused, My Wife says, "I will read."
And this is what she tries to make me Hear,
"With Earth's first Clay they did the Last man knead."

XII

But don't imagine while Possessed of Wit,
That I assent, and therefore Calmly sit.
I take my hat, and hasten from the House,
And come not back till think she's through with It.

XIII

I might have Prayed, and possibly thereby
Have gained relief from Somewhere in the Sky.
But Wife says, Omar's reckoning proves it
"As Impotently moves as You or I."

XIV

At least that is the Doctrine he presents,
Although to Me it is Devoid of Sense.
My unbelief in what he says does Make
My Wife's Love for him only more Intense.

XV

And thus it is--the Rubaiyat's her Creed.
It is her Comfort in all sorts of Need.
I tear my hair--I storm--I swear, and yet,
'Tis only to dear Omar she pays Heed.

XVI