TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE
 
 WHILE I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
 My heart would brim with dreams about the times
 When we bent down above the fading coals
 And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
 Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
 And of the wayward twilight companies
 Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
 Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
 Under the fruit of evil and of good:
 And of the embattled flaming multitude
 Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
 And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
 And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
 A rapturous music, till the morning break
 And the white hush end all but the loud beat
 Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.