Come gather at the springtide table,
Thou seeking-searching-sorrowing mass,
Who knows that joy is good for hearts
But peace inside thee cannot have.
This chamber deep is dark indeed;
Soft— let thy eyes adjust.
For on this bare and loamy ground,
The stillness breeds pure milk, honeyed-trust.
White flowers strewn through cloths and sticks
Whispering wisdom old and ever-new:
Love my beauty, then thou shall eat my truth.
How many fear this, they cannot do.
“Why is this table stone-broken such?
Whose bread-crumbs spilled around?
How can we be fed in banquet shrouded be?”
Spoke the brows that frowned.
Hail the few, with dirty palms and soles,
Falling silent now in awe.
Those who know they cannot know
Themselves, near to mysterious table shall draw.
How strange here is this food,
Changing one and one to three?
Could it be that on these thrones,
now right-side-up are we?
“I am,” says Wooden Table,
“The humblest of them all,
Foundation of each festival,
Sure safeguard when ye fall.
Rest long and run fingers on my broken cracks;
Reach far and join hands with those ye love.
Begin this starry-foretold feast,
Oh guests of Eternal Fullness Above.”
Come gather at the summertime table…