"A cup for hope!" she said,
In springtime ere the bloom was old:
The crimson wine was poor and cold
        By her mouth's richer red.

        "A cup for love!" how low,
How soft the words; and all the while
Her blush was rippling with a smile
        Like summer after snow.

        "A cup for memory!"
Cold cup that one must drain alone:
While autumn winds are up and moan
        Across the barren sea.

        Hope, memory, love:
Hope for fair morn, and love for day,
And memory for the evening gray
        And solitary dove.