THE TABLE ROUND
I
What think you of the Table Round
Which the garden's rustic arbor
In pride doth harbor?
And what its weight, how many a pound?
Or shall you reckon that in tons?
For this is of earth's mighty ones:
A mill-stone 't is, that turns no more,
But, on a pier sunk deep in ground,
Like a ship that's come to shore,
Content among its flowery neighbors
It rests forever from its labors.
II
Now no more 'mid grind and hammer
Are the toiling moments past,
But amid a milder clamor
Stays it fast.
For the Garden Lady here,
When the summer sky is clear,
With her bevy of bright daughters
(Each worth a sonnet)
To the tune of plashing waters
Serves the tea upon it.
III
And when Maria, and when Molly,
Frances, Alice, Grace, Cecilia,
Clara, Bess, and Pretty Polly,
Lolah and the dark Amelia,
Come with various other ladies,
Certain boys, and grown-ups graver—
Then, be sure, not one afraid is
To let his wit give forth its flavor,
With the fragrant odor blent
Of the Souchong, and the scent
Of the roses and sweet-peas
And other blossoms sweet as these.
Then, indeed, doth joy abound
About the granite table round,
And the stream of laughter flowing
Almost sets the old stone going.
