WHILE I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes, My
heart would brim with dreams about the times When
we bent down above the fading coals And
talked of the dark folk who live in souls Of
passionate men, like bats in the dead trees; And
of the wayward twilight companies Who
sigh with mingled sorrow and content, Because
their blossoming dreams have never bent Under
the fruit of evil and of good: And
of the embattled flaming multitude Who
rise, wing above wing, flame above flame, And,
like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name, And
with the clashing of their sword-blades make A
rapturous music, till the morning break And
the white hush end all but the loud beat Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet. |
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