THROUGH the hall the bell hath sound; Welcoming doth the mayor beseem; The aldermen do sit around, And snuffle up the savoury steam, Like asses wild in desert waste Sweetly the morning air do taste. So keen they ate; the minstrels play, The din of angels do they keep, High style. The guests have nought to say, But not their thanks, and fall asleep. Thus every day be I to dine, If Rowley, Iscam, or Tyb. Gorges be not seen. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ADAM WEIRAUCH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO A FRIEND by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS STANZAS FOR MUSIC (3) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12. A RENUNCIATION by THOMAS CAMPION NO MASTER by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES HUDSON RIVER ANTHOLOGY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS CHINA 1937 by LAURA FRANCES ALEXANDER LET HER SLEEP! by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS LILIES: 13. 'LET US NEVER COMFORT EACH OTHER INTO SLEEP' by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |