Languid Lunches

Sweetly as the day begins,

It cannot reach its finest part

Until that leisured à la carte

Procession of great taste that twins

Fine foods with seasonings and drinks,

With garnish, relish, fetish, fish–

Whatever makes the perfect dish–

‘Til everyone at table thinks

He’s surfeited (at least, quite near),

Whereon the pace grows slower yet,

Chairs get pushed back and belts made loose,

And everyone’s digestive juice

Begins to work on this grand set

Of foods and trimmings at a rate

That makes the luncheon eaters feel

Almost as if another meal

Could fit in with what they just ate–

But since it was so fine, no sweeter

Course could complement the feast,

From boldest spoonful to the least,

So full content is every eater–

So they set down, each one, that spoon,

And smile, and wipe their chins and lips,

And sup no more, not even sips,

Through this delicious afternoon . . .