While I wrought¹ out these fitful Danaan rhymes，

    My heart would brim with dreams about the times

    When we bent² down above the fading coals

    And talked of the dark folk who live in souls

    Of passionate³ men， like bats in the dead trees；

    And of the wayward twilight⁴ companies

    Who sigh with mingled⁵ 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 Ineffable⁶ Name，

    And with the clashing of their sword-blades make

    A rapturous music， till the morning break

    And the white hush⁷ end all but the loud beat

    Of their long wings， the flash of their white feet.