Nor William Blake, Neither
The translucent porcelain saucer looked impossibly fragile, resting on Spock's outstretched palm.
His powerful fingers folded in to grasp the tiny handle of the delicate cup. Watching him serenely raise that teacup to take another sip - in a ritual as old, probably, as any remaining of either Earth or Vulcan - it struck Jim that this was a snapshot illustration of the dichotomy of the man.
As a metaphor, it seemed it should mean something.
'Geez, Jim,' his brain snorted, ruining yet another moment that seemed, somehow, to promise insight if he were only patient and diligent enough, 'Metaphors? Who do you think you are now – William freaking Wordsworth? Stick to what you know.'
Knowing himself to be no poet, Jim hastily took a deep drink of the tea. He might have gulped. There was an ugly clack as he put his teacup back on its saucer.
Spock returned his own cup to his saucer, then, and soundlessly replaced the two on the table. The motion was very slow and his long pale alien hand seemed to hover forever. Then it was retracted, and settled in, folded with its twin.
Jim looked up from those hands to see Spock watching him.