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A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916], at sacred-texts.com
Long do I sorrow that the spring should end;
Fain is the host to stay the parting friend.
When for a while the dull routine is done,
We statesmen idle in the sun.
The kettle yields its stream of golden tea,
And warm winds spread the odours of congee.
Finished the cup, faded the crimson peach,
Twilight, the green embankment levelled to the beach,
My boat is poled along the shore and soon
In the pure night unlanterned we recline;
Until, caps off to conquering wine,
We nod, the dream companions of the moon.