"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.