Fatal Delay

There sat with Love who feasted and were glad, —
Strong men whose lids through love wax warm and wet,
And amorous women whose soft looks beget
Most poignant passion. There, not richly clad,
Sat one, remote, and on his robes he had
Dust of long journeyings; his fingers met
About Love's goblet, but he sighed, " Not yet,"
Though often through great thirst he was nigh mad.

He held the goblet up against the light.
And saw the sparkling wine therein was good;
But sudden darkness settled on his sight;
The guests were gone; he sat in solitude;
The goblet clanging fell, with all its might.
And now he moistens his charred lips with blood.