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 wed¹，

    Murmuring a wizard song for thee.

    There the Loves a circle go，

    The flaming circle of our days，

    Gyring， spiring² to and fro

    In those great ignorant leafy ways；

    Remembering all that shaken hair

    And how the wingèd sandals dart³，

    Thine eyes grow full of tender care：

    Beloved， gaze in thine own heart.

    Gaze no more in the bitter glass

    The demons⁴， with their subtle guile⁵，

    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 boughs⁶ 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 ravens⁷ of unresting thought；

    Flying， crying， to and fro，

    Cruel claw and hungry throat，

    Or else they stand and sniff⁸ the wind，

    And shake their ragged⁹ wings； alas¹⁰！

    Thy tender eyes grow all unkind：

    Gaze no more in the bitter glass.