| 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, older than changing of night and day, |
| That murmuring and longing
came |
| From marble cities loud with tabors of old |
| In dove-grey 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 Phoenix 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. |