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.’
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