AFTER THE FEAST

I have drunk deeply of the cup,

Fared well and fed;

The guests with whom I sat to sup,

Are gone to bed:

A broken harp lies on the floor,

Its tangled strings will sound no more —

The wine-stained linen I deplore.

Here is a little trampled rose,

A violet;

Here is a hyacinth, and those

Are mignonette:

They looked so proudly from their place,

First at the feast — with tears I trace

Now but a vestige of that grace.

Upon the table is a crown —

Where is the King?

The little leaves that tremble down,

Cover a ring;

A vase of crystal shattered lies

Against a goblet, where the wise

Talked through the laughter. How time flies!

It is not very long ago,

Here in the hall,

When to the tapers’ tangled glow

The rise and fall

Of voices over nuts and wine

Murmured like wind through leaf and vine;

And there was joy of me and mine.

I snuff the tapers one by one.

The darkness falls.

Alas, for feasting and for fun!

My madrigals

Are ended. I will not again

Sing. Sound of wind and weeping rain

Is now the interlude of pain!

Yet it was good to know the feast,

To be a guest;

Though at the table I was least

Among the best.

Blindly I grope unto the door,

Gather a flower from the floor —

I will come back here never more!

What! Never more go gladly back?

Ah, foolish me!

When down the winding starry track

The company,

With laughter their lord following,

Shall yet return to greet the King

Who claims the crown and wears the ring!

And though I have put out each light,

Gathered one flower,

Bravely I fare forth into night —

What is an hour,

A day, a year, if, after all

The silence, those dear comrades call,

And there is harping in the hall?

I wait the summons; gladly go

Against the rain;

They will be seated row on row

Here once again:

And in that brave, loved company

What song and laughter there will be,

When I resume my minstrelsy!