The Poet’s Feast

The golden feast for jovial souls prepare Whose wants the wants of nature far exceed; The nectar of the sun such palates need; To them the fatted calf is vulgar fare. Earth’s dripping fruits may wandering Arabs share Pleased with the pulp and juice whereon they feed; And bread alone is still the poor man’s meed, Though milk abound and honey be to spare. So dreams the Poet, with his crust content: The crumbs that from the rich man’s table fall To him are sorry signs of merriment To show the world has food enough for all. At festive boards he has but little part— To him ’twas given to feed on his own heart.