She bore the beaker o'er to him—
Her chin was rounded like its rim—
So light and steady was her tread,
Not one drop of the wine was shed.
So light and sinewy his hand,
He rode his young horse carelessly,
And with an easy mastery
He forced it to a quivering stand.
And yet when from her hand the light
Small beaker he must take, they found
That it was all too hard, for lo,
Both he and she did tremble so
Their two hands never met aright,
And dark wine trickled on the ground.
