THE LOVER SPEAKS TO THE HEARERS OF HIS SONGS IN COMING DAYS O WOMEN, 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 all that sin I wove in song, Till the Attorney for Lost Souls cry her sweet cry, to my beloved and me: 'No longer fly Amid the hovering, piteous, penitential throng.'