  MY lady has a tea-gown That is wondrous fair to see,— It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, As a tea-gown ought to be; And I thought she must be jesting Last night at supper when She remarked by chance, that it came from France, Had she told me fifty shillings, I might (and wouldn’t you?) Have referred to that dress in a way folks express By an eloquent dash or two; But the guileful little creature Knew well her tactics when She casually said that that dream in red Had cost but two pounds ten. Yet our home is all the brighter For the dainty, sentient thing, That floats away where it properly may, And clings where it ought to cling; And I count myself the luckiest Of all us married men That I have a wife whose joy in life Is a gown at two pounds ten. It isn’t the gown compels me Condone this venial sin; It’s the pretty face above the lace, And the gentle heart within. And with her arms about me I say, and say again, “’Twas wondrous cheap,”—and I think a heap Of that gown at two pounds ten! Eugene Field. |
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