Classic Poem

On notable days the dead mount a mighty table,
A barque that sails their world from one end to the other,
But which they rarely look to, since never falls to them
Extreme occasions fit to make joy and revel of.
Wherefore the table sails as might a magic barque
Riding a vacant sea — the garbled flow
Of sham regrets: for the dead cannot well utter
Precise passions, or call their wants by name.
And yet such notable days betide, to celebrate
Unlikely, clouded raptures, brazenly enigmatic.
No sitting down here — the chairs are floating derelicts.
Nor does one really eat — rather a hungry stroll
Along the table-edge, in prodigal anticipation:
An orchard excellent in fruits; plumped animals
Ranging prosperous — earnest of mouthsome roasts;
A fountain in the middle where play the fish most sweet of flesh.
But the knives and forks and plates and other table-things
Are but close patterns damasked against the cloth-hem to the life.
No, this promissory banquet has no dietetic sequel.
Soon the table will fly off into the wan expanse
Where the feigned visions of the dead expire
In slow-heaved sighs of false contentment.