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.