AT THE FEAST OF LIFE

YOU, who sit opposite and move your lips, And toy with silver dish and graceful spoon, And touch your wine-glass with reluctant sips— Why do you pause, for it is afternoon. What are your thoughts, that they should draw a mist Before your sweet eyes, as the hours creep? While others sing, and laugh and keep the feast, A fast you keep. Where dwells who now should come and feast with you? Where fares he, years off—leagues off? Thirsts and prays For the one sign to make his life come true? For the one clue to lead him to your ways? Will the feast last till he shall gain the halls? Will fruits and wines still glow, will roses wait? What if, in vain your tender name he calls— Entering late? If he should fail, I see you still serene, Leaving the tables where the garlands die, Passing the fountained courts that intervene To the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye. O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascend I see you toil; your pallid candle shakes; The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend, Drops—faded flakes.