Lippo by Ella Wheeler Wilcox — Read

Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, / I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; / Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes- / 'Twas thine own hand which dealt dear / Love's death-blow.

I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then / Thy heart was like a covered golden cup / Always above my eager lip held up. / I fancied thou wert not as other men.

I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine, / Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip / Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip / Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled / Its precious contents. Even to the lees / Were offered to me, saying, "Drink of these! " / And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

No word was left unsaid, no act undone, / To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. / Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save / One little drop of that sweet wine-but one-

I still had loved thee, longing for it then. / But even the cup is mine. I look within, / And find it holds not one last drop to win, / And cast it down. -Thou art as other men.