I Bring An Unaccustomed Wine By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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.