Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Mine Host

Yon huddled cloud his motion shifts,
Where, by the tavern on the dale,
The thirsty horseman, nodding, lifts
The creaming horn of corny ale.

Mellowing, like some old cucumber
That curves and fattens on its bed,
From his own vats, right jolly fare,
Full thirty suns mine host hath fed.

His tavern is our chief resort,
For he, whose cellar is his pride,
Gives stouter ale and riper port
Than any in the countryside.

Mine host is fat, and grey, and wise,
He strokes his beard before he speaks;
And when he laughs, his little eyes
Are swallowed in his pampered cheeks.

He brims his beaker to the top,
With jokes you never heard before,
And sometimes with a twinkling drop
For those who will not taste it more.

-Lord Alfred Tennyson

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