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 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;
| Flying, crying, to and 