Poems (Jackson)/Feast

by Helen Hunt Jackson

FEAST.

OR days when guests unbidden  Walk in my sun,With steps that roam unchidden,  And overrunMy vines and flowers, and handsThat rob on all my lands,—For such days, still there stands  One banquet, one!

One banquet which, spread under  A magic mist,I taste, until they wonder  What light has kissedMy eyes, and where the grapesHave hung, whose red escapesIn mounting, mantling shapes,  And heats my wrist.

Crowned with its rosy flowers,  Pouring its wine,Glide faithful ghosts of hours  Long dead: no signThey show of death, or chill,But glowing, smiling still,Love's utmost joy fulfil  At word of mine.

And ringeth through my garden,  The tireless paceOf silver-mailed warden,  With eastward face,Who calmly bides the night,And in each first, red light,Reads prophecy aright  Of that day's grace,

When guests that are unbidden  Shall all have ceased;And thy dear arms unchidden,  My love, my priest, Shall hold me while the hoursThat were, and are, fling flowers,And Hope, the warden, pours  Wine for our feast.