POURED by a hundred rills, The blue cup of the hills Is lifted into light, Through birches pale of limb That lean to its granite rim And are mirrored green and white. This is the cup of storm; No sun can make it warm That passes overhead; And here in channeled stone, Cold and quenched and alone, A fallen star lies dead. Drink at the deep cup That the hills have lifted up And it will make you old; For you taste the long-drowned sky, And the glow of suns gone by, In this water, clear and cold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FINIS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON RETROSPECT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LETTERS TO DEAD IMAGISTS by CARL SANDBURG A PSALM OF TRAVEL by GEORGE SANTAYANA YOUTH'S IMMORTALITY by GEORGE SANTAYANA BEFORE THE FLOWERS OF FRIENDSHIP FADED FADED: 21 by GERTRUDE STEIN |