The Bench of Boors

In bed I muse on Teniers’ boors, 

Embrowned and beery losels all: 

      A wakeful brain 

      Elaborates pain: 

Within low doors the slugs of boors 

Laze and yawn, and doze again. 

In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors, 

Their hazy hovel warm and small: 

      Thought’s ampler bound 

      But chill is found: 

Within low doors the basking boors 

Snugly hug the ember-mound. 

Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors 

Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall: 

      Thought’s eager sight 

      Aches—overbright! 

Within low doors the boozy boors 

Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.