The Pearl

When, wounded by her anger at some trifle,
I imitate the oyster, rounding out
A ball of nacre about the intrusive grit,
Why should she charge me with perversity
As one rejoicing in his own torn guts
Or in the lucent pearl resultant
Which she disdainfully strings for her neck?
True anger I admire; but could she swear
That I am otherwise incorrigible?