The Cup-Bearer

By George Sterling

Nay—tremble not! 'Tis that immortal wine
    The wise immortals grant our lips at last—
    Red from the vanished veins of lovers past.
Drink! for my very heart of hearts is thine!
Drink! for I dare to call thy silence mine,
    And mine the spirit fugitive thou hast,
    The soul intrepid, crystalline and vast,
Young with a breathless sense of the divine.

Thy solitude had all love's mystery,—
    Had all the beauty that is love's to give
        To stronger souls that wait their hour apart:
Burns now the dawn, whose star foreshadowed thee —
    Oh! drain with me the chalice, that I live
        A rose among the lilies of thy heart!

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