The Ghost

By Kenneth Slessor

"BEES of old Spanish wine

Pipe at this Inn to-night,

Music and candleshine

Fill the dim chambers . . . .

"Fans toss and ladies pace,

Flutes of cold metal blow,

Maidens like winds of lace

Tease the dark passages . . . .

"Run, you fat kitchen-boys,

Pasties in pyramids

Rise while your masters poise

Flagons with silver lids . . . .

"Ha! Let the platters fume,

Jars wink and bottles drip,

Staining with smoke and spume

Lips, tables, tapestries . . . .

"Wenches with tousled silk,

Mouths warm and bubble eyes,

Tumble those beds of milk

Under carved canopies . . . .

"Now let your lovers dive

Deep to that hurricane . . . .

O, to be there alive,

Breathing again!"

So the ghost cried, and pressed to the dark pane,

Like a white leaf, his face . . . in vain . . . in vain..