At a Fashionable Dinner

         We sat with the banqueting-party
                By the table-end—
         Unmarked,—no diners out
                Were we: scarce a friend
                Of our own mind's trend
         Was there, though the welcome was hearty.
         Then we noticed a shade extend
                By a distant screen,
And I said: "What to you does it seem to mean,
                     Lavine?"

         "—It is like my own body lying
                Beyond the door
         Where the servants glide in and about
                The carpeted floor;
                And it means my death hour!—"
         "—What a fancy! Who feels like dying
         While these smart sallies pour,
                With laughter between!
To me it is more like satin sheen,
                     Lavine."

         "—That means your new bride, when you win her:
                Yes, so it must be!
         It's her satin dress, no doubt—
                That shine you see—
                My own corpse to me!"
         And a gloom came over the dinner,
         Where almost strangers were we,
                As the spirit of the scene
Forsook her—the fairest of the whole thirteen—
                     Lavine!