| 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 winged 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 bareness
|
| 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.
|
| 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.
|
| Remembering all that shaken hair
|
| And how the winged sandals dart,
|
| Thine eyes grow full of tender care;
|
| Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. |