Verrey’s, Aldous Huxley

VERREY’S

HERE, every winter’s night at eight,

Epicurus lies in state,

Two candles at his head and two

Candles at his feet. A few

Choice spirits watch beneath the vault

Of his dim chapel, where default

Of music fills the pregnant air

With subtler requiem and prayer

Than ever an organ wrought with notes

Spouted from its tubal throats.

Black Ethiopia’s Holy Child,

The Cradled Bottle, breathes its mild

Meek spirit on the ravished nose,

The palate and the tongue of those

Who piously partake with me

Of this funereal agape.

The end