A poet's wife

A poet wrote a poem
To his ideal love.
He sang of her shape,
So like a trim gazelle.
He sang of her eyes,
Blue as summer's skies.
 He sang of her skin,
Smooth, white and fine.
He sang of her limbs,
Curved and oh, so soft.
 He sang of her hair,
 A gloss like silken threads.
He sang of her mouth,
 Pomegranate-red and sweet.
He sang of her manner,
 Languid, and frail as a flower.
 He sang of her love,
Fresh and young and pure.
He sang of her hands,
Thrilling to touch or be touched.
A poet sang, and sang and sang.
And then he got married to a barge who gave him seven brats and washed his socks and underwear and ruined her hands in his dishpan.