Poemsby Emily Dickinson

I
III

II

 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.