Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.

We who still labour by the cromlec on the shore,

The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,

[36]

Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you

Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.

[37]

[37]

MICHAEL ROBARTES ASKS FORGIVENESS BECAUSE OF HIS MANY MOODS

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,

[38]

'That murmuring and longing came,

'From marble cities loud with tabors of old

'In dove-gray faery lands;

 Prev. P 23/52 next