“A cup for hope!” she said,
In springtime ere the bloom was old:
The crimson wine was poor and cold
By her mouth's richer red.

“A cup for love!” how low,
How soft the words; and all the while
Her blush was rippling with a smile
Like summer after snow.

“A cup for memory!”
Cold cup that one must drain alone:
While autumn winds are up and moan
Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love:
Hope for fair morn, and love for day,
And memory for the evening gray
And solitary dove.