When first we knew it, gibbet-bare
And from its branches muffled doves
And what a cooing trade was done
So entering this enchanted zone
And having thus signed on the line
Till he finds later, waking cold,
The dove's is now the raven's day
The Tree of Guilt
It scrawled an omen on the air,
But later, in its wealth of leaf,
Looked too lush too hang a thief.
Drummed out their purchasable loves
Which far below them were purveyed
On credit through the slinking shade.
Around the tree-trunk anyone
Could guess who saw the countless hearts
Carved in its bark transfixed with darts;
Anyone would add his own
Cut neatly with a pocket knife,
There for his life and the tree's life.
Anyone claimed his anodyne
And, drinking it, was lulled asleep
By doves and insects, deep and deep,
The leaves fallen, himself old,
And his carved heart, though vastly grown
Not recognizably his own.
And there is interest yet to pay;
And in those branches, gibbet-bare,
Is that a noose that dangles there?
Louis MacNeice