Beloved, My Glory

Beloved, my glory in thee is not ceased, Whereas, as thou art waning, forests wane: Unmoved, as by the victim is the priest, I pass the world’s great altitudes of pain. But when the stars are gathered for a feast, Or shadows threaten on a radiant plain, Or many golden cornfields wave amain, Oh then, as one from a filled shuttle weaves, My spirit grieves.