While The Billy BoilsSearchThe sacred fires are cold,O Love! O Heart of Gold!Beyond the sobbing of the sundering seaA spectre sits and waitsBy Memory’s bolted gates,And calls, and calls across the years to me.
Nor wreath of rose or rueFate wove for me or you:The sands run out, the blackening brands expireWhere passion sits and moansWith eyes as dry as stonesBeside the ashes of her lost desire.
Nor spark shall warm the clay,Nor gold shall gild the grey,The harvest ripes for other hands to win;No more for Love’s dear sakeShall the old sweet music wakeWhere the “glory-sky” leaned low on Ta Mahinna.
The sacred fires are cold,O Love! O Heart of Gold!Life’s red wine dyes the desert at our feet,But aye from years behind,A restless, homeless windComes laden with hearts’ incense, bitter-sweet.