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 day

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, g 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. pKk/ai0HeiM6R6ySr3MwdGFUcUJCB+vXerbBUIvmfxqWBuABAMljRjr/7NledNPc