Cup
I walked among them with my cup of blue;
It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembled
With sweet of all the exquisite things I knew.
Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled,
My wish to have these strangers taste the brew
That to my lip all sky and sun resembled.
I walked among them, holding up my grail;
Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking.
It was the best I knew; luminous, pale,
Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking;
I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny,
Ethereal-bitter—sometimes sweet as honey.
I walked among them with my cup of blue;
They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture.
“What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew?
What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture?
This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness;
This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”
I walk among them with my azure bowl,
To fete and market-place and to the threshing;
Today there is no feast, there is no soul
But craves the cup I bring, nor its refreshing,
And yet in vain I raise my flashing beaker
And pledge my toast—to Truth and the Truth Seeker!