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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 recieves,

Broken boughs and blackened leaves.

For ill things turn to barreness

In the dim glass trhe 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;

Flying,crying,to and fro,

Cruel claw and hingry 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

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were---I have not seen

As others saw----I could not bring

My passions from a common spring--

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow---I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone---

And all I lov'd ----I lov'd alone--

Then----in my childhood---in the dawn

Of a most stormy life----was drawn

From ev'ry depth of good and ill---

The mystery which binds me still--

From the torrent,or the fountain---

From the red cliff of the mountain---

From the sun that round me roll'd

In its autumn tinit of gold--

From the lighing of the sky

As it pass'd me flying by--

From the thunder,and the storm--

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view----





----Edgar Allan Poe