Tears cry down the water pitcher;
1
Lonely lip-marks wreath the wine;
Steam curls out the coffee cup—
The only thing that's getting milk'd.
Sometime flows like rustling river;
5
Sometime drips like cul-de-sac;
Sometime overbears the liver;
Now there's something which I lack.
She isn't mine! she isn't mine:—
9
I feel it shooting through my nerves;
Longtime waiting in a line,
Short time capturing her curves . . .
I can both stoop down or stretch up;
13
I can't stand where I sit:
Another man I'd call a shlup
To plunge from pit to blacker pit.
Heaven's pleasures coolly bilk'd,
17
My coif is slick'd; my clothes are silk'd;
Tears cry down the water pitcher;
21
Lonely lip-marks wreath the wine;
Steam curls out the coffee cup—
The only thing that's getting milk'd.