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 For mute is battle's brazen horn
 * That rang for Priest and King;

And she who drank of that brave morn
 * Is pale with evening.

An hour there is when bright words flow,
 * A little hour for sleep,

An hour between, when lights are low,
 * And then she seems to weep.

But no less lovely than of old
 * She shines, and almost hears

The horns that blew in days of gold,
 * The shouting charioteers.

And still she breaks the hearts of men,
 * Their hearts, and all their pride,

Doomed to be cruel once again,
 * And live dissatisfied.