Beneath the water, near the strand, Retired as in a cloister; Upon the gravel, rock or sand, The bay or river near at hand, Is found the growing oyster. The iron rake, or tongs, or hook, Or other means shall raise them; And as they drip and seem to look, And seem to call for ready cook, The epicure shall praise them. With salt and pepper on the shell, I cheerfully will take them; The opener storms the citadel; My tongue, it waters like a well; They vanish ere I wake them. You recommend the dainty pie, The fanciful escalop, You urge the stew, the mealy fry; Then down they go, as all we try, As if upon a gallop. No matter what the form, I ween, For spoon, or fork or platter; Just let the appetite be keen, And soon we sweep the table clean, Amid a lively clatter. Away with salad, gobbler, quail, In quiet, or in royster; Nor can the ortolan avail; They all must soon ignobly fail, Beside the luscious oyster. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PARIS IN SPRING by SARA TEASDALE THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS' (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI HASTINGS' SONNETS: 5 by SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES MEMORIES by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON LUCIETTA. A FRAGMENT by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |