My cup has cooled. The steaming tea I've sipped
This midnight hour--'twas meant to chase away
A frightening dream--is now deplete and tepid;
Just one swirl of tender green remains.
But, oh, the moments past, still comfort fresh
And counted by the ticking mantle clock,
I warmed my fingers, prayer-like, round the cup
And let the first hot taste break threshold--then
In bursts of calm, each sip came tingling down
My throat like hosts of microscopic bells,
And spread like sunlight cut through heavy clouds.
The moon, at full, gleams white and hard tonight,
While I, full-mellowed, couched in shadow, sense
The god of tea wisdom, kind minister,
Released from well-steeped leaves and fragrant vapors,
Drifting round my head, and soon I have
Forgotten moonlight, ticking, and my dream.
Inside my falling eyelids soon I see
Soft images of hands--all pouring tea.