 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
228
WHITHER?
The moon does not tire in the sky,Nor that star which comes after it quail
In the paths that are high:
Do they know where they go,
While we faint and we fail?
For we know not, ah, no!
Sure light, that has lighted from time out of mind—
From what moon, from what star?
As we look from our place
Toward thy region afar,
Still we dream by thy grace
We may find!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |