I
In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears, Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way;
Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:
"It is night, it is night, it has never been day;
Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;
It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.
Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer, For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands."
II
Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:
"It is day, it is day, it has never been night!
Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;
It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands."
