| Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, |
| The holy tree is growing there; |
| From joy the holy branches start, |
| And
all the trembling flowers they bear. |
| The changing colours of its fruit |
| Have dowered the stars with merry
light; |
| The surety of its hidden root |
| Has planted quiet in the night; |
| The shaking of its leafy head |
| Has given
the waves their melody, |
| And made my lips and music wed, |
| Murmuring a wizard song for thee. |
| There
the Loves a circle go, |
| The flaming circle of our days, |
| Gyring, spiring to and fro |
| In those great ignorant
leafy ways; |
| Remembering all that shaken hair |
| And how the wingèd sandals dart, |
| Thine eyes grow full of
tender care: |
| Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. |
|
|
|
|
| Gaze no more in the bitter glass |
| The demons, with their
subtle guile, |
| Lift up before us when they pass, |
| Or only gaze a little while; |
| For there a fatal image grows |
| That the stormy night receives, |
| Roots half hidden under snows, |
| Broken boughs and blackened leaves. |
| For all things turn to barrenness |
| In the dim glass the demons hold, |
| The glass of outer weariness, |
| Made
when God slept in times of old. |
| There, through the broken branches, go |
| The ravens of unresting thought; |
| Flying, crying, to and fro, |
| Cruel claw and hungry throat, |
| Or else they stand and sniff the wind, |
| And shake
their ragged wings; alas! |
| Thy tender eyes grow all unkind: |
| Gaze no more in the bitter glass. |
