A Persistent Spirit

I. Hardy

My dinner guest these four years past,
What dish could bend or break your fast?
How thin you’ve grown, no skin nor bone,
Your substance air, and no breath blown.

Each night I set your place with care
And soft and misty meats prepare.
Your freezing chop I saw see-through;
Opaque would never do for you.

Your old sieve skin new wine would burst,
Uncanny vessel, film flesh cursed.
Thin vintage grace your goblet gold
I digged from cellar’s deep dark mold.

Drink’st only dregs, thou dried blood stain,
Thou broken beeswing, long past slain?
And cravest rinds and cast-off crumbs,
Fit for a man’s crust, dust become?

You’ve nothing now to fear from bread.
No noxious drops can fell the dead,
As those, by art in sweet-meats slipped,
Our missing cousin’s green stem nipped.

His name starts hot tears in my eyes
And thy cold wells likewise un-dries.
A worn-out cobweb, left for new
And guy ropes frayed, still catches dew.

A bright moon lines thin silver chain
That binds thee here, and here again
On darkest nights, thou shadow’s shade,
Art by thy grinding groans betrayed.