Day, with his blotting trumpet, overthrew
My city of dream, and, with his marshalled spears,
My thought that had the unperforming years
Amended and laid the base of heaven true;
But pitying, signed me priest with chrismal dew,
And I went telling of expatriate tears,
Of Hate cast out with all his sworded peers,
And tower-tops spiring to the gods anew.
One gibed, one wept, one with his drowsed air
Chilled me to very stone, but no man hearkened;
So to my love I went — ah! once love darkened
Her eyes, and in that darkness I could hide —
Why should they couch them? In her alien stare
I knew she knew all Christs I had denied.