In this glass palace are flowers in golden baskets.
In that grim brownstone castle are silver caskets.
The caskets watch and wait, and the baskets wait,
for a certain day and hour, and a certain date.
Wonderfully glow the colors in this bright palace.
Superb the flora, in pyx and vase and chalice.
The glass is steamed with a stifling tuberose breath;
and lilies too, of the valley of the shadow of death.
The caskets are satin-lined, with silver handles;
and the janitor sings theyll soon be lighting candles.
He sweeps the sidewalk, and as he sweeps he sings,
in praise of a hearse with completely noiseless springs.
Hush the conspiracy works, it has crossed the street:
some day, and its not far off, the lovers will meet:
casket and basket will soon set forth together
on a joyful journey, no matter how bleak the weather;
in a beautiful beetle-black hearse with noiseless tread,
basket and casket together will hie to bed;
and start on a pullman journey to a certain gate,
punctually, at a certain hour, on a certain date.
