And bind¹ up every wandering tress；

    I bade my heart build these poor rhymes：

    It worked at them， day out， day in，

    Building a sorrowful loveliness

    Out of the battles of old times.

    You need but lift a pearl-pale hand，

    And bind up your long hair and sigh；

    And all men‘s hearts must burn and beat；

    And candle-like foam² on the dim sand，

    And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky，

    Live but to light your passing feet.