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!