Modern Love: XVII

At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.

Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps

The Topic over intellectual deeps

In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.

With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:

It is in truth a most contagious game:

‘Hiding the skeleton,’ shall be its name.

Such play as this, the devils might appal!

But here’s the greater wonder; in that we

Enamoured of an acting naught can tire,

Each other, like true hypocrites, admire; 

Warm-lighted looks, Love’s ephemoerioe,

Shoot gaily o’er the dishes and the wine.

We waken envy of our happy lot.

Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.

Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine.