[Editor: A poem by Agnes L. Storrie. Published in The Australasian, 11 May 1912.]
A Draught.
Give me to drink of love’s own cup,
No flat and home-brewed potion,
Drawn from th’ emasculated lees
Of orthodox emotion;
Nor cheap and dull domestic draught,
That every lip may share,
The beverage of the table d’hote,
Life’s thin vin ordinaire.
Give me to drink of love’s own cup,
Or I will die athirst;
I will not stoop to press the grapes
Of passion till they burst,
Nor sip liqueurs, that silkily
To the cloyed palate cleave,
And on satiety the tang
Of retrospection leave.
Give me to drink of love’s own cup,
That sacred essence, stored
Where deep in her eternal breast
Life keeps her secret hoard;
The vital draught whose every drop
Wakens desire anew,
That time can only mellow,
And immortal hands can brew.
AGNES L. STORRIE.
Source:
The Australasian (Melbourne, Vic.), 11 May 1912, p. 1081 (49th page of that issue)
Editor’s notes:
cleave = to adhere, attach, cling, or stick, to someone or something; to be emotionally devoted to someone; to adhere, or follow loyally and unwaveringly, to a person or cause (may also mean to split, part, or divide, such as by a cutting blow by an axe or sword, especially along a natural line of division, such as along a grain line in a piece of wood; to cut off or sever; to forcefully pass through or penetrate, such as through air, forest, water)
lees = the sediment of wine in a barrel; dregs found in a cask; also used to refer to dregs in a general context
The Institute of Australian Culture
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