THREE SEASONS
'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 grey And solitary dove.