'BEES of old Spanish wine <br />Pipe at this Inn to-night, <br />Music and candleshine <br />Fill the dim chambers . . . . <br />'Fans toss and ladies pace, <br />Flutes of cold metal blow, <br />Maidens like winds of lace <br />Tease the dark passages . . . . <br />'Run, you fat kitchen-boys, <br />Pasties in pyramids <br />Rise while your masters poise <br />Flagons with silver lids . . . . <br />'Ha! Let the platters fume, <br />Jars wink and bottles drip, <br />Staining with smoke and spume <br />Lips, tables, tapestries . . . . <br />'Wenches with tousled silk, <br />Mouths warm and bubble eyes, <br />Tumble those beds of milk <br />Under carved canopies . . . . <br />'Now let your lovers dive <br />Deep to that hurricane . . . . <br />O, to be there alive, <br />Breathing again!' <br />So the ghost cried, and pressed to the dark pane, <br />Like a white leaf, his face . . . in vain . . . in vain..<br /><br />Kenneth Slessor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ghost-30/
