The Guests

When I and my own heart are ail alone
With one another and our neighbour thought,
We talk together, but the talk has grown
Sadder of late, and we have grown distraught.
The feasting-table as of old is spread,
And of the selfsame fare we drink and eat;
But listless fingers and a drooping head
Take all the savour out of princes' meat.
Then, as my neighbour thought and I sit down,
Looking on one another's eyes grown cold
And silent lips and joy-dispelling frown,
That were so joyous table-mates of old,
Each plots to call in guests, if guests there be
That would sit down between my thought and me.