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 My cup is empty to-night,
Cold and dry are its sides,
Chilled by the wind from the open window.
Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.
The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms.
They sway in the moon's radiance And tap against the wall.
But the cup of my heart is still, And cold, and empty.
When you come, it brims Red and trembling with blood, Heart's blood for your drinking; To fill your mouth with love And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.

by Amy Lowell
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