Modern Love XVII: At Dinner She Is Hostess

 At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.
 
Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps 
The Topic over intellectual deeps 
In buoyancy afloat.
 They see no ghost.
 
With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball: 
It is in truth a most contagious game: 
HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.
 
Such play as this the devils might appal! 
But here's the greater wonder; in that we, 
Enamoured of an acting nought can tire, 
Each other, like true hypocrites, admire; 
Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe, 
Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.
 
We waken envy of our happy lot.
 
Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.
 
Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.

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