IN the tavern of my heart <br />Many a one has sat before, <br />Drunk red wine and sung a stave, <br />And, departing, come no more. <br />When the night was cold without, <br />And the ravens croaked of storm, <br />They have sat them at my hearth, <br />Telling me my house was warm. <br /> <br />As the lute and cup went round, <br />They have rhymed me well in lay;-- <br />When the hunt was on at morn, <br />Each, departing, went his way. <br />On the walls, in compliment, <br />Some would scrawl a verse or two, <br />Some have hung a willow branch, <br />Or a wreath of corn-flowers blue. <br /> <br />Ah! my friend, when thou dost go, <br />Leave no wreath of flowers for me; <br />Not pale daffodils nor rue, <br />Violets nor rosemary. <br />Spill the wine upon the lamps, <br />Tread the fire, and bar the door; <br />So despoil the wretched place, <br />None will come forevermore.<br /><br />Willa Sibert Cather<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-tavern-3/
