Читать книгу The Complete Works - William Butler Yeats - Страница 101

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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, through bewildered branches, go

Winged Loves borne on in gentle strife,

Tossing and tossing to and fro

The flaming circle of our life.

When looking on their shaken hair,

And dreaming how they dance and 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,

With broken boughs, and blackened leaves,

And roots half hidden under snows

Driven by a storm that ever grieves.

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 ravens of unresting thought;

Peering and flying to and fro,

To see men’s souls bartered and bought.

When they are heard upon the wind,

And when they shake their wings; alas!

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:

Gaze no more in the bitter glass.