O, Colleens, 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 The Great Sin I Wove In Song, Till Maurya Of The Wounded Heart Cry A Sweet Cry, And Call To My Beloved And Me: 'No Longer Fly 'Amid The Hovering, Piteous, Penitential Throng.'
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