'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 whileHer 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.