"There, through the broken branches, go The ravens of unresting thought; Flying, crying, 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 in the bitter glass. 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." (see also: The Rose by William Butler Yeats)
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