THE touches of man’s modern speech
Perplex her unacquainted tongue;
There seems through all her songs a sound
Of falling tears. She is not young.
Within her eyes’ profound arcane
Resides the glory of her dreams;
Behind her secret cloud of hair
She sees the Is beyond the Seems.
Her heart sole-towered in her steep spirit,
Somewhat sweet is she, somewhat wan;
And she sings the songs of Sion
By the streams of Babylon.