A Cup For Hope!' She Said, In Springtime Ere The Bloom Was Old: The Crimson Wine Was Poor And Cold By Her Mouth'S Richer Red. 'A Cup For Love!' How Low, How Soft The Words; And All The While Her Blush Was Rippling With A Smile Like Summer After Snow. 'A Cup For Memory!' Cold Cup That One Must Drain Alone: While Autumn Winds Are Up And Moan Across The Barren Sea. Hope, Memory, Love: Hope For Fair Morn, And Love For Day, And Memory For The Evening Grey And Solitary Dove.