We had a fight...

Observe the Scholar at his desk:
His mind so neat; his soul a mess;
His truth so clear. No room for doubt.
His kindness -- well, we'll leave that out.
Take note of clean, well-ordered life;
Mark well the tear on cheek of wife.
Her feelings, alien to him.
Her wants, her needs -- equations grim.
Such puzzles he declines to solve,
Instead, he'll keep him uninvolved.
He'll hide himself in logic pure,
the practical, the un-obscure.
For what a trial, this wifely mate
And such a bother to translate!
Much better, facts and figures cold.
They're never noisome. Never old.
They argue not, nor make demands.
He'll work them now with angry hands.
We'll leave him to these numbers Real.
He'll think, and think
but never feel.