| Fasten your hair with a golden pin, |
| And bind up every wandering tress; |
| I bade my heart build these poor rhymes: |
| It worked at them, day out, day in, |
| Building a sorrowful loveliness |
| Out of the battles of old times. |
| You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, |
| And bind up your long hair and sigh; |
| And all men’s hearts must burn and beat; |
| And candle-like foam on the dim sand, |
| And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, |
| Live but to light your passing feet. |