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Poem	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.
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