No more so rich are the gifts of the gods.
On the shores of a different river now
Through wide and widening sunset gates

How they flare up, like a tinder bonfire
On the plaza of night, our holy convictions!
Before the usurping edict of tenderness

The grapes in the royal garden have rusted
And the concubine, waiting, sleeps by the wall.
Veins of Palestine, heavy with sap,

Tighter and tighter wringing my hands
Till they be riven—
Between us are not the miles of earth

Tousle-haired star
Hurrying into nothing
Out of a horrid nowhere

A day will come, lamenting, I hear,
When bright no longer with thrones, fires, tears,
My eyes which once incandescent ruled