Hanrahan Speaks To The Lovers Of His Songs In Coming Days
by William Butler Yeats
O, Colleens, kneeling by your altar rails long hence, When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer, And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense; Bend down and pray for the great sin I wove in song, Till Maurya of the wounded heart cry a sweet cry, And call to my beloved and me: No longer fly Amid the hovering, piteous, penitential throng.
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