BID thee to my mystic feast, Each one thou lovest is gather'd there; Yet put thou on a mourning robe And bind the cypress in thy hair. The hall is vast, and cold, and drear; The board with fairest flowers is spread; Shadows of beauty flit around, But beauty from which bloom has fled; And music echoes from the walls, But music with a dirgelike sound; And pale and silent are the guests, And every eye is on the ground. Here, take this cup, though dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; Tis from their native element, The cup is fill'd -- it is of tears. What, turn'st thou with averted brow? Thou scornest this poor feast of mine; And askest for a purple robe, Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine. In vain -- the veil has left thine eyes, Or such these would have seem'd to thee; Before thee is the Feast of Life, But life in its reality! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON DONNE'S POETRY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ON COMMUNISTS; EPIGRAM by EBENEZER ELLIOTT HUMAN IGNORANCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ON SICK LEAVE, 1916 by HAMILTON FISH ARMSTRONG IN THE COACH by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN A PORTRAIT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH; LAST POEM, ROME, MAY, 1861 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |