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I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine
And summon them to drink

Crackling with fever, they Essay
I turn my brimming eyes away
And come next hour to look

The hands still hug the tardy glass
The lips I would have cooled, alas
Are so superfluous Cold

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould

Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak

And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake
If, haply, any say to me
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake