Classic Poem

I cried in the halls where the feast will be set;
The hurrying servants whom I met
Brushed me aside, asked why I tarried.
On their black woolly heads gold platters they carried,
Piled high with rich fruits; betwixt jewelled hands,
Goblets of crystal, white blossoming wands,
Urns breathing incense: all these to be set
Where Truth's feast and the feasters too soon shall be met.

The guest shall turn as he laughs and sups,
Reaching his hand for the golden wine;
His face shall change as he sees next to him
A mouth that mocks, eyes that look through him,
A head sink her glistening brow 'twixt the cups,
Locks blackening his stoup with a liquor of brine.

In the scrolls of the platter of gold there has bled
The juice of fruit battered and hairy and red;
The goblets of crystal are fissured and cracked
Like ice the bronze tyre of the chariot has wracked,
And the blossoms curl withered because of the heat
Of urns overset by the slip of red feet
When the reveller fell forward unable to save
His eyes from the torch, his groin from the glaive. Chorus.

For Truth rejected returns as Pain. Kassandra.

Under the trestles the guests lie slain;
The curtains upon the gold cords pull
Heavily, sagging like nets that are full,
For curved in the trough and propped in the fold
The red, red catch lies tossed and rolled;
The halls and corridors reek with the flood;
The pillars are trickled with cyphers of blood;
Rent garlands lie trampled over the floors;
Rusty footprints lead out through the high bronze doors
To the starlit night and the whispering plain: Chorus.

For Truth rejected returns as Pain. Kassandra.

I weep for the ruin of a high, proud house;
Moths fret the still curtains; down the throne runs a mouse;
The sun fades on the floors heaped high with dead leaves;
The moon runs on the rills that run from the eaves;
Brown clogs the peristyle; the air has a tang;
Weeds rot on the terrace; the hanging gates clang;
The wind is a weariness; man lives in vain. Chorus.

Where Truth rejected returns as Pain.