A Peal of Bells
Strike the bells wantonly,Tinkle tinkle well;Bring me wine, bring me flowers,Ring the silver bell.All my lamps burn scented oil,Hung on laden orange-trees,Whose shadowed foliage is the foilTo golden lamps and oranges.Heap my golden plates with fruit,Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; 10Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;Shut out showers from summer hours—Silence that complaining lute—Shut out thinking, shut out pain,From hours that cannot come again.
Strike the bells solemnly, Ding dong deep: My friend is passing to his bed, Fast asleep; There’s plaited linen round his head, 20 While foremost go his feet— His feet that cannot carry him. My feast’s a show, my lights are dim; Be still, your music is not sweet,— There is no music more for him: His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim Is drained, is broken, cannot hold; My blood is chill, his blood is cold; His death is full, and mine begun. 30