The Two Trees

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    BELOVED, gaze in thine ow,

    The holy tree is growing there;

    From joy the holy braart,

    And all the trembling flowers they bear.

    The ging colours oof tender care:

    Beloved, gaze in thine ow.

    Gaze no more iter 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 blaed leaves.

    For ill 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 ravens of uing thought;

    Flying, g, 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 iter glass.

百度搜索 Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats 天涯 或 Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.