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 w'd have cooled, alas -
Are so superfluous cold -
I w'd 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 w'd 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
Musicians wrestle everywhere -
All day - among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife -
And - waking - long before the morn -
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that "New life"...
No Notice gave She, but a Change -
No Message, but a Sigh -
For Whom, the Time did not suffice
That She should specify.
She was not warm, though Summer shone
Nor scrupulous of cold
Though Rime by Rime...
Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel -
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill -
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose -
Partakes without alighting
And p...