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