A Peal of Bells Christina Rossetti

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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.