 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
VALETE
The heart of the woodland
Gives range to the rover,
Each broad tidal ocean
To ships that come over;
And some on the mountain,
And some in the hollow,
Are free, as it bids them,
Their fancy to follow.
But song, having bless'd them,
Must leave them unheeded,
Since, more than new accent,
The new theme is needed.
If woods could be greener
And seas might be broader,
More stars overwatch'd them
In luminous order;
If touch'd by the tincture
Transmuting existence
The height were exalted,
Transfigured the distance;
If wings should be granted,
Like doves, for swift flying,
And sight, as an eagle's
Sun-bathed, for descrying;
Still wings would droop downward,
The vision must falter,
And mists would all glory
Diminish or alter.
Gives range to the rover,
Each broad tidal ocean
To ships that come over;
And some on the mountain,
And some in the hollow,
Are free, as it bids them,
Their fancy to follow.
184
Must leave them unheeded,
Since, more than new accent,
The new theme is needed.
If woods could be greener
And seas might be broader,
More stars overwatch'd them
In luminous order;
If touch'd by the tincture
Transmuting existence
The height were exalted,
Transfigured the distance;
If wings should be granted,
Like doves, for swift flying,
And sight, as an eagle's
Sun-bathed, for descrying;
Still wings would droop downward,
The vision must falter,
And mists would all glory
Diminish or alter.
Ah, ye that go outward,
Where cold lie the snows on
The track up those mountains
'Tis death to repose on!
Ye too that go outward,
Where winds with their moaning—
In spume on the tost seas—
Your dirge are intoning;
All ye that go outward
Where dryads have hidden
Snake-fangs in the forests
For hunters unbidden;
Hath dream in the brightness,
When sense-veils grow thinner,
No vision's bright prospect
Conjured from the inner?
With mournful and mystic
Penumbra is shrouded
That threshold which opens
On splendours unclouded.
O ways unfrequented,
Eluding detection,
I found you, I enter'd,
One day of election!
And, lo! through what regions,
Because of her trances,
The spirit, unbonded
By vision, advances!
Where cold lie the snows on
The track up those mountains
'Tis death to repose on!
Ye too that go outward,
Where winds with their moaning—
In spume on the tost seas—
Your dirge are intoning;
All ye that go outward
Where dryads have hidden
Snake-fangs in the forests
For hunters unbidden;
Hath dream in the brightness,
When sense-veils grow thinner,
No vision's bright prospect
Conjured from the inner?
185
Penumbra is shrouded
That threshold which opens
On splendours unclouded.
O ways unfrequented,
Eluding detection,
I found you, I enter'd,
One day of election!
And, lo! through what regions,
Because of her trances,
The spirit, unbonded
By vision, advances!
O beautiful outward!
O inward! Divine is
Your ray on the outward,
Now each of them mine is!
What secrets, what meanings,
Informing, uplighting!
This life's common story
Turns mystical writing;
All that which is beauty
A light is shed down on,
While thought is new vestured,
High song hath its crown on;
And all is romance, from
The green leaf's light flutter
To strong spirit music
Which tongue cannot utter.
And seen in the brightness
And heard in the glory,
By this book of vision
And magical story,
In strange ballad measures,
Some part have I striven
To give of those marvels
Which I have been given.
O inward! Divine is
Your ray on the outward,
Now each of them mine is!
What secrets, what meanings,
Informing, uplighting!
This life's common story
Turns mystical writing;
All that which is beauty
A light is shed down on,
While thought is new vestured,
High song hath its crown on;
And all is romance, from
The green leaf's light flutter
To strong spirit music
Which tongue cannot utter.
And seen in the brightness
And heard in the glory,
By this book of vision
And magical story,
In strange ballad measures,
Some part have I striven
To give of those marvels
Which I have been given.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |