If this importunate1 heart trouble your peace

With words lighter2 than air，

Or hopes that in mere3 hoping flicker4 and cease；

Crumple5 the rose in your hair；

And cover your lips with odorous twilight6 and say，

O Hearts of wind-blown flame！

O Winds， older than changing of night and day，

That murmuring and longing8 came

From marble cities loud with tabors of old

In dove-grey faery lands；

From battle-banners， fold upon purple fold，

Queens wrought9 with glimmering10 hands；

That saw young Niamh hover11 with love-lorn face

Above the wandering tide；

And lingered in the hidden desolate12 place

Where the last Phoenix13 died，

And wrapped the flames above his holy head；

And still murmur7 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.