If this importunate heart trouble your peace

With words lighter than air,

Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease;

Crumple the rose in your hair;

And cover your lips with odorous twilight and say,

‘O Hearts of wind-blown flame!

‘O Winds, elder than changing of night and day,

‘That murmuring and longing came,

‘From marble cities loud with tabors of old

‘In dove-gray faery lands;

‘From battle banners fold upon purple fold,

‘Queens wrought with glimmering hands;

‘That saw young Niamh hover with love-lorn face

‘Above the wandering tide;

‘And lingered in the hidden desolate place,

‘Where the last Phœnix died

‘And wrapped the flames above his holy head;

‘And still murmur and long:

‘O Piteous Hearts, changing till change be dead

‘In a tumultuous song:’

And cover the pale blossoms of your breast

With your dim heavy hair,

And trouble with a sigh for all things longing for rest

The odorous twilight there.