132
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.
(Emily Dickinson)
More Poetry from Emily Dickinson:
- Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Sic transit gloria mundi (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- I cannot live with You (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- The Wind begun to knead the Grass (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- One Year ago-jots what? (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Your Riches - taugh (Emily Dickinson Poems)