The Yew-Tree on the Downs

A gibbous moon hangs out of the twilight,
Star-spiders, spinning their thread,
Drop a little lower, withouten respite
Watching us overhead.

Come then under this tree, where the tent-cloths
Curtain us in so dark
That here we're safe from even the ermine moth's
Twitching remark.

Here in this swarthy, secret tent,
Whose black boughs flap the ground,
Come, draw the thorn from my discontent,
And bless the wound.

This rare, ancient night! For in here
Under the yew-tree tent
The darkness is secret, and I could sear
You like frankincense into scent.

Here not even the stars can spy us,
Not even the moths can alight
On our mystery; nought can descry us
Nor put us to flight.

Put trust then now in the black-boughed tree,
Lie down, and open to me
The inner dark of the mystery,
Be penetrate, like the tree.

Waste not the yew-tree's waiting, waste
Not this inner night!
Open the core of gloaming, taste
The last dark delight.
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