Laid out with silver vessels and brown bread
And some hot pasty smoking at the head
With odorous vapour, and the jug afloat
With bitter, amber ale that stings the throat
Or figured glasses full of purple wine.
Or should one ask for pleasures more divine,
Then let him draw toward the pleasant blaze
And in the warm still chamber, let him raise
Blue wreaths of pungent vapor from the bowl,
That glows and dusks like an ignited coal
At every inhalation of sweet smoke.
So shall he clear a stage for that quaint folk,
The brood of dreams, that faëry puppet race
That will not dance but on a vacant space;
And purge from every prejudice or creed
His easy spirit, that with greater speed,
He may outrun the boundaries of art
And grapple with grim questionings of heart.
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