The flame is spent, I can no more
Hold the tall candle by your door;
Too often have I watched to see
Your lagging steps come home to me.

The Tyrian traders taught me this:
They came perfumed with ambergris,
With amethystine robes, and hair
Curled by the kisses of salt air.

They mocked me for my weary hands
Holding your light as love demands;
They sang the lure of poppied sleep,
Their lips were warm, their eyes were deep.

The flame is spent — your pale, weak face
Must seek another resting place;
Win me and hold me now who can —
The Tyrian trader was a man.