CHRISTUS DIONYSUS

* And the leaves of the Tree were for the healing of the nations.

WHEN I am grown so weary, my hands can keep no hold Of the heavy water of living, in its jar of mortal gold, And it slips and spills in the ocean; then I shall sink to sleep Beneath the boughs of Yggdrasil, where the sea-ways are deep, Or peer from slumberous eyelids to see the smooth, black stem Stretch up to the world's foundations, and know that it beareth them; While dim through the roofs of water I shall hear, and hardly hear How the birds of Bran the Blessed sing Aves all the year. The waves of God will go over me, the waves and the great, green flood, Where the ash-buds break to blossom in a red gleam like blood. Yggdrasil, Yggdrasil! . . . the branches sweep and spread Till the Tree of the whole world's sorrow shadows my dreaming head; And never a wind comes near it, but the leaves swing quietly Night and day to the swinging of the sea, of the salt sea.

THERE are three gates to the city;
One is of gold, and one
Beaten of shining silver,
And one is like the sun.

By one, the laughing lovers,
By two, the quiet priests,
By three, the Lord of laughter
Rides to the vineyard feasts;

Young Dionysus
Crowned with the thorn and vine;
His feet and hands are red with blood,
His mouth is red with wine.