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THE OLD CRY
21

THE OLD CRY

IF only ages ago
   I had buried my restless heart
Under mountains of snow
     In a lonely place apart,
I could bring it now to her,
     Locked with a silver key;
And its shadowy pearls would never stir
     From that sweet sanctuary.

Oh wind that wafted my boat
     To the isles where the Sirens sing,
Somewhere — washed up upon sands remote
     Those pearls he glittering.
Gather them, gather them up,
     Oh wind, and bring them to me
In a misty foam-wreathed cup —
     The pearls that I lost in the sea.

Dim with the salt are they,
     Blurred and bleached with the sun;
But, gathered from far away.
     Bring them back, every one;
That Iain once more at rest
     Where her heart beats and feels.
They may sleep forever against her breast,
     Sealed with a thousand seals!