Facing deep wine raised in the
Tilted, earthen cup, the dark
Opening into further
Dark, eyes wide, he could perceive,
Around the rim of the dark,
Breathings of the afternoon;
As, eyes shuttered, he could see
Sleep, so, opened, they would show
Him death—but now momently
In the heart of the wine, far
Away, the muses of waltz
Moved, as if seen from a height
Down a narrowing defile,
In an unshadowed meadow.
A Cup of Tremblings
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