I BRING AN UNACCUSTOMED WINE

by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

      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.

MORE POEMS BY EMILY DICKINSON

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