A Peal of Bells

Strike the bells wantonly
Tinkle tinkle well;
Bring me wine, bring me flowers
Ring the silver bell
All my lamps burn scented oil
Hung on laden orange-trees
Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
To golden lamps and oranges
Heap my golden plates with fruit
Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
Shut out showers from summer hours—
Silence that complaining lute—
Shut out thinking, shut out pain
From hours that cannot come again

Strike the bells solemnly
Ding dong deep:
My friend is passing to his bed
Fast asleep;
There's plaited linen round his head
While foremost go his feet—
His feet that cannot carry him
My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
Be still, your music is not sweet,—
There is no music more for him:
His lights are out, his feast is done;
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
His death is full, and mine begun