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 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.
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