THY HAIR
Reading edition
It is a forest Of shadows And golden vines: Even a crown— More gloried than The piteous thorns That wreathed in pain The Head of Christ: A whispering wood, A magic veil, Wherein all pale World-wearied eyes Would flee the dust Of hurried earth More utterly Than in the deep And flawless Sleep of death. It is thy chapel, Whose fretted shutters Fall and outbar The faintest gleam Of mortal day,— That within its Curiously Woven walls Thou mayst thine own Pure light create.
