22
Tower of Ivory
ECHO
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?
GRIEF
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.
