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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 ill things turn to Barrenness.
In the dim glass the demons
hold
the glass of outer weariness,
Made when Gods slept in times of
old.
There, through broken branges 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.
~ W.B. Yeats.
 Lillium Sadi · Thu Feb 01, 2007 @ 02:48am · 0 Comments |
