Christina Rossetti — 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.