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.