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A Song of the Degrees


Rest me with Chinese colours,

For I think the glass is evil.



The wind moves above the wheat—

With a silver crashing,
A thin war of metal.

I have known the golden disc,

I have seen it melting above me.
I have known the stone-bright place,
The hall of clear colours.



O glass subtly evil, confusion of colours!

O light bound and bent in, soul of the captive,
Why am I warned? Why am I sent away?
Why is your glitter full of curious mistrust?
O glass subtle and cunning, O powdery gold!
O filaments of amber, two-faced iridescence!