There’s nothing ferrous in here. But my frown
And wrinkled shirt, and sneer of cold command
Tell that this poet well those passions read
Which yet survive, creas’d on these lifeless things.

And feeble goes the hand that cannot rule
An iron, or with iron, or what all:
As maidenhead in luxury reclines.
But still I stand defeated at the last.

For that task I despise, it is but one:
And shirts look far, far worse
When I am done.

= = = = =

Those Dishes Won’t Do Themselves