The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 11 / Poems from the Teacups Series

Produced by David Widger
WHO gave this cup? The secret thou wouldst steal Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: No mortal's eye shall read it till he first Cool the red throat of thirst.
If on the golden floor one draught remain, Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain; Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know The names enrolled below.
Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well Those modest names the graven letters spell Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see Who the good angels be.
Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,— Their names shall meet thine eye.
Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven; Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,— The Graces must add two.
For whom this gift? For one who all too long Clings to his bough among the groves of song; Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing To greet a second spring.
Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold, Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain, Its fragrance will remain.
Better love's perfume in the empty bowl Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul; Sweeter than song that ever poet sung, It makes an old heart young!
How beauteous is the bond In the manifold array Of its promises to pay, While the eight per cent it gives And the rate at which one lives Correspond!
But at last the bough is bare Where the coupons one by one Through their ripening days have run, And the bond, a beggar now, Seeks investment anyhow, Anywhere!
IF all the trees in all the woods were men; And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.