LIFE'S TAVERN by ARTHUR W. UPSON

NIGHT-REFUGE, set aloft this travelled hill,
'Tis deemed by many a lodger but an inn;
Others look round them better and scarce fill
Their first cup ere its mystery doth begin,
And they are led by some divine desire
Where, midmost of an inner room, there bends
Clear flame on golden altar, to which fire
A wide-eyed vestal changelessly attends.
And most, so led, have joy to serve that light
And with the jealous priestess vigil keep;
But woe to any wearying neophyte,
And woe to him who serves with eyes of sleep:
To such is she more bitter than to those
On whom, unlit, her doors forever close!

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