And bind 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 foam on the dim sand，
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky，
Live but to light your passing feet.