The Feast of Life

The Feast of Life

I bid thee to my mystic feast,

Each one thou lovest is gathered there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.

The hail is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread,
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from which bloom has fled.

But music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge like sound:
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.

Here take this cup, though dark it seems,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element,
The cup is filled - 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 seemed to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!

Unattributed

3:42, p. 338

1829.01.24