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 brimIs drained, is broken, cannot hold;My blood is chill, his blood is cold; His death is full, and mine begun.