THERE came strange days of idlesse, when she said:
'I will recall my rose-days overblown,
The glad, bright sweetness, now forever flown,
That make a queen still queen though she were dead.

'One was at evening, when I heard a voice
Singing of love, of victory, of death,
And all were one; the same delicious breath
Sang victory, love, and death, nor made a choice,

'And now I dwell within a mystic world
Where his voice follows me from dawn to night;
High in my bower imprisoned I watch the light
That ever seems in wings of music furled.

'And when I try to tell what else may be
Of joy for me in memory, still I hear
The singer, nor for love nor death appear
Nor victory, his choice; he sang of three.

'O singer, still thou singest to my heart!
And love and death are now to me as one
Great song forever; surely thou hast won
Indeed a victory, for they cannot part!'