Amy Lowell’s speaker sits alone at night, and the emptiness of the room mirrors something deeper. A cup stands cold, dry, and drained, touched only by moonlight and wind from the open window. The room is filled with the strange scent of wistaria blossoms, which sway and tap against the wall, but none of it reaches the speaker. The stillness is not peaceful; it is hollow. The surroundings are lovely, yet they feel distant, as if the speaker has been hollowed out by waiting.
The second half turns toward “you.” In the beloved’s presence, that empty cup becomes the heart, suddenly brimming with blood—an intimate, almost startling image of total self-giving. The speaker offers heart’s blood for the beloved to drink, filling the mouth with love and the “bitter-sweet taste of a soul.” The mood shifts from lonely, suspended silence to fierce, vulnerable devotion. Absence feels like being drained of life; return means overflowing with emotion and sacrifice.