132 <br /> <br />I bring an unaccustomed wine <br />To lips long parching <br />Next to mine, <br />And summon them to drink; <br /> <br />Crackling with fever, they Essay, <br />I turn my brimming eyes away, <br />And come next hour to look. <br /> <br />The hands still hug the tardy glass— <br />The lips I would have cooled, alas— <br />Are so superfluous Cold— <br /> <br />I would as soon attempt to warm <br />The bosoms where the frost has lain <br />Ages beneath the mould— <br /> <br />Some other thirsty there may be <br />To whom this would have pointed me <br />Had it remained to speak— <br /> <br />And so I always bear the cup <br />If, haply, mine may be the drop <br />Some pilgrim thirst to slake— <br /> <br />If, haply, any say to me <br />"Unto the little, unto me," <br />When I at last awake.<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-bring-an-unaccustomed-wine/
