Page:Collected poems of Flecker.djvu/83

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An hour there is when bright words flow,
    A little hour for sleep,
An hour between, when lights are low,
    And then she seems to weep.

But no less lovely than of old
    She shines, and almost hears
The horns that blew in days of gold,
    The shouting charioteers.

And she still breaks the hearts of men,
    Their hearts and all their pride,
Doomed to be cruel once again,
    And live dissatisfied.