 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
218
I LOOK TO SEE
A SONG OF VISION
When the twilight of autumn falls, sober and grave, on the brightness;
When, pungent with mystic aroma of turf and of earth, in its lightness
The mist, from the vague ground exhaling, some zephyr's breath urges
To form in the hollows, in meadows, midst muffled dead marches and dirges,
Deploying—battalions in bosks—here a banner unfurl'd;
There a pennon, a streamer put forth; all the ghosts of the world
'Twixt the trees gather'd watching; a man, though the footway is known—
In the broad road ends yonder—uncertain, impress'd by the lone
And the sense of the vague and the dim, for some light in the distance
Looks forward, not lost nor distress'd, guessing well where the glimmer must be—
As he looks without pausing, so I to sure ends of existence,
O I look to see!
When, pungent with mystic aroma of turf and of earth, in its lightness
The mist, from the vague ground exhaling, some zephyr's breath urges
To form in the hollows, in meadows, midst muffled dead marches and dirges,
Deploying—battalions in bosks—here a banner unfurl'd;
There a pennon, a streamer put forth; all the ghosts of the world
'Twixt the trees gather'd watching; a man, though the footway is known—
In the broad road ends yonder—uncertain, impress'd by the lone
And the sense of the vague and the dim, for some light in the distance
Looks forward, not lost nor distress'd, guessing well where the glimmer must be—
As he looks without pausing, so I to sure ends of existence,
O I look to see!
Yet perchance the unknown shall await him; white bird on the wing
From out of the mist in the coppice unthought of shall suddenly spring;
With flight that is low and uncertain, o'er meadow and brake,
Him who sought but his home in the village shall tempt and shall take
On the chase, till the moonset may find him astray by high walls
Of a bright burnish'd palace built fair in a land of enchantment and thralls.
Then the task of the world is before him, to win the world's flower,
One maid of all maids, and behold him, the man in the magical hour!
So bent upon far-shining ends, pressing on where they gleam,
By some path unexpected, perchance what was dream'd not by me
I shall reach in my longing, and that overstanding all dream
O I look to see!
From out of the mist in the coppice unthought of shall suddenly spring;
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Him who sought but his home in the village shall tempt and shall take
On the chase, till the moonset may find him astray by high walls
Of a bright burnish'd palace built fair in a land of enchantment and thralls.
Then the task of the world is before him, to win the world's flower,
One maid of all maids, and behold him, the man in the magical hour!
So bent upon far-shining ends, pressing on where they gleam,
By some path unexpected, perchance what was dream'd not by me
I shall reach in my longing, and that overstanding all dream
O I look to see!
The thought in its flight may escape me, but I follow still;
The Word of my art is remote. Where the keen star broods over the hill,
Where the dark clouds hang out, flashes flame, the red flame o'er the storm-driven deep,
Where the winds have their caverns, 'tis far, but longer the way I must keep.
The heart that is flagging goes forward, the eye that is weary is bent
Where the Thought with the Word is united; and albeit the day is far spent,
The night comes when no man can labour—see, eve closes round—
O I know, where the circle is woven which hallows a glorious ground!
In the church of all art shall its priest the high union effect
'Midst the strings and the horns and the organs, and, bent on the knee,
Shall the great Œcumenical Council confess it; so therefore erect
Do I look to see!
The Word of my art is remote. Where the keen star broods over the hill,
Where the dark clouds hang out, flashes flame, the red flame o'er the storm-driven deep,
Where the winds have their caverns, 'tis far, but longer the way I must keep.
The heart that is flagging goes forward, the eye that is weary is bent
Where the Thought with the Word is united; and albeit the day is far spent,
The night comes when no man can labour—see, eve closes round—
O I know, where the circle is woven which hallows a glorious ground!
220
'Midst the strings and the horns and the organs, and, bent on the knee,
Shall the great Œcumenical Council confess it; so therefore erect
Do I look to see!
We clasp but the shadow of love, which is longing and thirst,
And no man possesses another, for bonds which have never been burst
Enswathe and divide us from each, and our separate life
Intervenes like a wall in all nuptials; no woman is wife,
Nor ever call'd any man husband, save only in sign;
But because of the want and the longing, the strong flame which burns in the shrine
And feeds on the heart that sustains it, I know, beyond sense,
O I know my Redeemer is living; that keen and intense,
By some change in our substance of being, the union divine,
To which all our blind motions reach out, shall the ends of all longing decree ;
And that out of the flesh I shall gaze on the love which is mine—
So I look to see!
And no man possesses another, for bonds which have never been burst
Enswathe and divide us from each, and our separate life
Intervenes like a wall in all nuptials; no woman is wife,
Nor ever call'd any man husband, save only in sign;
But because of the want and the longing, the strong flame which burns in the shrine
And feeds on the heart that sustains it, I know, beyond sense,
O I know my Redeemer is living; that keen and intense,
By some change in our substance of being, the union divine,
To which all our blind motions reach out, shall the ends of all longing decree ;
And that out of the flesh I shall gaze on the love which is mine—
So I look to see!
The darkness falls over the waste; the great deep in the darkness roars;
But the shores, it would seem, have no sea, or the sea in the dark has no shores;
The God-light falls lost, if it shine, on the eye unresponsive and blind;
While the eye that would see hath no light, as we tread the dark maze of the mind.
Who knows what is urging us forward midst shrill battle-call?
The arrows scream round; if we fall, shall we lie—can we tell?—as we fall?
O light in the darkness, upshining through a world of false-seeming and wraith,
Our trust may be cold and half-hearted, but yet all our trust is in thee,
And our peace past the fields of dissension—because of thee, Faith—
Do I look to see!
But the shores, it would seem, have no sea, or the sea in the dark has no shores;
The God-light falls lost, if it shine, on the eye unresponsive and blind;
While the eye that would see hath no light, as we tread the dark maze of the mind.
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The arrows scream round; if we fall, shall we lie—can we tell?—as we fall?
O light in the darkness, upshining through a world of false-seeming and wraith,
Our trust may be cold and half-hearted, but yet all our trust is in thee,
And our peace past the fields of dissension—because of thee, Faith—
Do I look to see!
To hear and to see and to know, and, immersed where the lights never fail,
Confess that at length we have truly transcended the world of the veil;
We have pass'd through the region of omen, and enter'd a land of sight.
O thanks be to God for the pillar of smoke by day and the pillar of fire by night;
The voice in the cloud and the burning bush and the holy places trod;
For the soften'd grace of the shaded face and the back of the Lord our God;
For the shadow'd home and the light beyond, for the secret pulses stirr'd
By the parable dim and the mystic hymn and the first sense of the Word!
But O for the end and the vision, beyond the gate and the way,
The light which the eye cannot picture, repose in activity free!
The veils of the world are about me, sad dreams of the night and the day,
But I look to see!
Confess that at length we have truly transcended the world of the veil;
We have pass'd through the region of omen, and enter'd a land of sight.
O thanks be to God for the pillar of smoke by day and the pillar of fire by night;
The voice in the cloud and the burning bush and the holy places trod;
For the soften'd grace of the shaded face and the back of the Lord our God;
For the shadow'd home and the light beyond, for the secret pulses stirr'd
By the parable dim and the mystic hymn and the first sense of the Word!
But O for the end and the vision, beyond the gate and the way,
The light which the eye cannot picture, repose in activity free!
The veils of the world are about me, sad dreams of the night and the day,
But I look to see!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |