To My Laundress

Saponacea, 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 know, 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.