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.