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.