Tavern

This poem is dear to my heart because the hubby and I have a fantasy to open a bar someday. We even have a name picked out. We both love craft beer, and are always looking for “our place” to hang out. Our last “our place” closed down several months ago, and we were pretty upset about it. Since then, nothing has felt just right.

If we had a barkeep like the one in this poem, we might just call it “our place.” This guy gets it.

 

Tavern

 

I’ll keep a little tavern

Below the high hill’s crest

Wherein all grey-eyed people

May sit them down and rest.

 

There shall be plates a-plenty,

And mugs to melt the chill

Of all the grey-eyed people

Who happen up the hill.

 

There sound will sleep the traveller,

And dream his journey’s end,

But I will rouse at midnight

The falling fire to tend.

 

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy–

But all the good I know

Was taught me out of two grey eyes

A long time ago.

 

–Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems

 

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