As A Cup Yielding
Fill again my goblet with sweet, honeyed mead:
My lip waits, dry; all kissing me can claim sour
Ash as only due for the bliss paid to me,
And faraway thoughts.
For no kisses match the one I had from you
Whose hand, kindling stars as hearts alike, took
my chalice from hands ever sworn to your aid
And slaked your thirst,
And then passed sweetness from yours to my mouth,
And a wish to learn every joy of your form,
Although raiment only, from me, to teach you.
High One, beneath me,
I reclaimed more swiftly the taste of sweet mead
Drank from you all you’d give, as a cup yielding
Draughts like míruvor on my tongue, yet burning
Ever ago, down years
Upon ages, and you, behind the bent seas,
And with hands raised as clouds, sit drinking
Still, from cups not mine, as thirsting I yearn for
Your summons to mead.