When nearly every pleasure palls,

I think of paper made for walls,

And used, I'm gratified to say,

In other houses far way.

I love to sit around and think

Of bronze, magenta, green, and pink

In geometric-jungle shapes

Obscuring, possibly, the drapes,

But not where I live, not my room.

I think of swollen flowers in bloom,

Of simulated stone or bark

That make me want to live in dark.

The patterns I have never had

Are cause enough for being glad.

I think of chocolate-hued designs

And silver-shiny formal lines

Oh most incredibly meant to paste

Where every day they must be faced

In living-room or entrance-hall.

But not, thank God, upon my wall.