THREE SEASONS.

“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.