Time drops in decay, 
Like a candle burnt out, 
And the mountains and woods 
Have their day, have their day; 
What one in the rout 
Of the fire-born moods, 
Has fallen away?




O what to me the little room 
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest; 
He bade me out into the gloom, 
And my breast lies upon his breast. 

O what to me my mother's care, 
The house where I was safe and warm; 
The shadowy blossom of my hair 
Will hide us from the bitter storm. 

O hiding hair and dewy eyes, 
I am no more with life and death, 
My heart upon his warm heart lies, 
My breath is mixed into his breath.



 
I bring you with reverent hands 
The books of my numberless dreams; 
White woman that passion has worn 
As the tide wears the dove-gray sands, 
And with heart more old than the horn 
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time: 
White woman with numberless dreams 
I bring you my passionate rhyme.