My husband is idle, is dumb and spends money.
He either stands still at the window or runs about town like a bunny.
He stares and he stares, at a tram, at the sky.
He mutters, he whistles: he rummages over the house like an amateur spy.
And then he reads books: he turns their pages at least.
There are books in the kitchen and cellar; folios mixed with the yeast.
But what is he thinking about? what does my husband mumble?
When he tries to speak he gets nervous: piles of words flurry and tumble.
In the evening he drinks, and I feel angry enough
When I see his dear eyes getting misted up with that stuff.
His eyes are misted. He takes one more dram.
He kneels down beside me and lays his head on my arm.
It is only then that I learn for the first time who I am.
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Comments about this poem (Wife by Julian Tuwim )
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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