TO MY LAUNDRESS

by: Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

APONACEA, 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 knows, 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.

• Ambrose Bierce: Bibliography - A bibliography of the works of Ambrose Bierce; includes a list of critical resources.
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