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22 When in the winter of heart's desire Sirens are dead, and the songs of fey Jangled and flat on a musty lyre, What shall we call to-day?

Miracle wrought from a laugh, a kiss, Mystery, wonder and breath of May,— How shall our hearts remember this When it is yesterday?

Hadst thou been queen in Babylon, My queen who lies so still, A proud tumultuous pyre had shone Upon thy burial hill.

And gold and pearl and amethyst, Thy crown, thy gilded lyre, Thy very slaves had kept thee tryst In that high flaming fire.