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