EMILY DICKINSON (United States, 1830 - 1886)

I BRING AN UNACCUSTOMED WINE

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.