Here’s a poem I wrote before going to Paris. It came to mind because I was doing my laundry today:

DRAWN FROM A RAVELL’D STOCKING

The Muses are turned gossips

      

       come, then

             curds and cream

drowning flies

       with rueful face

             come, Muse

the very cat

       the wet kitchen

             remains of quiet

dirt and gravel

       linen horse by dog thrown down

             or study swept

or nicely dusted

       stockings mended

             snug recess

all crushed beneath

       of course check’d apron

             mar thy musings

jelly or creams

       or butter’d toast

             eldest of forms

tended the little ones

       oft the pins

             my mother’s voice

to fold, and starch

       why washings were

             and sent aloft

thy silken ball

       the sport of children

             the toils of men