WeRead Powered by ReaderPub
Bread and Circuses cover

Bread and Circuses

Chapter 47: THE FIRST PARTY
By Helen Parry Eden
Open in WeRead

Explore more books like this:

Poetry

About This Book

A lyrical collection of short poems ranges from quiet country scenes and childhood memories to urban sketches and religious reflections. The poet renders streams, gardens, market sellers, and domestic interiors in close sensory detail while pairing everyday observation with moral and spiritual meditation. Animal vignettes and playful pieces for children sit alongside elegies, prayers, and ironic portraits of modern life, producing tones of humour, tenderness, and solemnity. Varied forms and concise portraits move between pastoral lanes, London streets, and intimate household moments while attending to time, sorrow, and faith.

THE FIRST PARTY

Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can, Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold, The sable progress of the serving-man, Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold; Whose ceremonious pin of jade and gold Bringeth such rosy awe into your face As the white frock, the stockings silken-soled And the white shoes (with pompons) which will grace The lightness of your feet in this illumined place.
Shawls being shed, descend the ample stair And greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to see The Conjurer, nor think to leave your chair For safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;— Still, as his tricks are tedious to Three And strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers, Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardry To hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bears And a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.
For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choice And nice derangement of the chairs, your seat Faces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;— What glances under glossy tresses greet The fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweet Till the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate. Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feet And come at last, for the time waxes late, Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.
Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge, Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs, And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edge Holds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers; Till in my arms, most spent of revellers, I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grieves Nor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs, Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves, Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves.