The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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VIATICUM |
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| XX. |
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| XXX. |
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| XXXVII. |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
17
VIATICUM
He who hath made it will mend it,
He who began it must end it—
Leave it to Him.
Weary and poor thou art,
Weak of purpose and frail in heart—
Thy hopes are vague and dim.
Stretch forth a hand and try
If thou canst touch the sky;
Lift up thine eyes and see
How far 'tis over thee—
Over all reach!
Quit then—the hour is late—
Leave unto Him, to fate;
Great may take care of great,
Each star of each!
He who began it must end it—
Leave it to Him.
Weary and poor thou art,
Weak of purpose and frail in heart—
Thy hopes are vague and dim.
Stretch forth a hand and try
If thou canst touch the sky;
Lift up thine eyes and see
How far 'tis over thee—
Over all reach!
Quit then—the hour is late—
Leave unto Him, to fate;
Great may take care of great,
Each star of each!
Those books, my friend, you purchased yester eve,
Though treating faithfully a certain art,
Contain not that you fondly now believe:
(Brother, a little while—and we depart!)
Though treating faithfully a certain art,
Contain not that you fondly now believe:
(Brother, a little while—and we depart!)
This habitation by the mere and stream,
For wood-shade peace, self-promised long ago,
Will not afford the rest of which you dream:
(Come, lock up house, my friend, and leave it so!)
For wood-shade peace, self-promised long ago,
Will not afford the rest of which you dream:
(Come, lock up house, my friend, and leave it so!)
The wealth which took you hand in hand with sin—
When you stand knocking at a certain gate,
Will forge no golden key to let you in:
(Make haste, one further step, the hour is late!)
When you stand knocking at a certain gate,
Will forge no golden key to let you in:
(Make haste, one further step, the hour is late!)
18
Now, well-away! What treasures some things were—
Ah, woe is mine!—which soon are utter dross:
(Toll slowly!—Stifle the unseemly stir—
A horror falls upon the house of loss!)
Ah, woe is mine!—which soon are utter dross:
(Toll slowly!—Stifle the unseemly stir—
A horror falls upon the house of loss!)
Be still, pale prophets of disaster, yet
In pace, in idipsum, dormiet!
In pace, in idipsum, dormiet!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |