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.