Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/109



Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes— ’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear Love’s death-blow.

I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then Thy heart was like a covered golden cup Always above my eager lip held up. I fancied thou wert not as other men.

I knew that heart was filled with Love’s sweet wine, Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled Its precious contents. Even to the lees Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!” And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

No word was left unsaid, no act undone, To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—

I still had loved thee, longing for it then. But even the cup is mine. I look within, And find it holds not one last drop to win, And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.