The Cup

Here is my Cup;
A crystal well,
Where the wind's rough fluting dies
To the thin-tuned sigh of a shell!
The very breath
Of melody,
In sob and song
She's singing me!

Here is my Cup;
A fairy soul,
With the sun all gold on her curves,
And the moon milk-white in her bowl!
As twilight dark,
Like dew a-shine,
The goblet she
Of ev'ry wine.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.