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Image-oblomovementa voice whose element would be ease,were it not for the tremor withinbarometer of time’spurer pressureBaby you’re torturing mea voice in bed, allongée,or satin-draped on a sofalike the maid in Monteiro’s Va e Vemwhile he scrubbed the floorI said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.Better go down upon your marrow-bonesAnd scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stonesLike an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;For to articulate sweet sounds togetherIs to work harder than all these, and yetBe thought an idler by the noisy setOf bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymenThe martyrs call the world.’