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 w'd have cooled, alas - Are so superfluous cold -
I w'd 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 w'd 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 -
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