The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
HEMLOCK
You know that, in the last resource of all,
It matters scarcely how the light may fall,
Or what stars in the night their beacons lift.
So little also brings the morning's gift
That whether late or early Nature stir,
We mark but idly how it fares with her
When in the East the scarlet glories spill,
Or how at noon her children take their fill
Of all the good which warmth in brightness brings.
Who counts these other than as trivial things,
Having so much, unmurmuring, left behind
Of all the morning splendours of the mind
And all life's midway majesty and pride?
One great detachment puts the soul aside
From the fair outward fields which Nature owns,
Since some time sadly seeking certain thrones,
Remember'd ever through a world of wrong,
The soul went forth. She, having journey'd long
Amidst the sorrows of secluded tracts,
Among cold snows and frozen cataracts,
Above the common zones of human thought,
One burden of sad knowledge thence has brought:—
That in such altitudes all stars look thin.
So, 'twixt the throne you surely thought to win
And that last dizzy peak of precipice
Where you have dared to stand, the great abyss
Its void unfathom'd offers silently.
It matters scarcely how the light may fall,
Or what stars in the night their beacons lift.
So little also brings the morning's gift
That whether late or early Nature stir,
We mark but idly how it fares with her
When in the East the scarlet glories spill,
Or how at noon her children take their fill
Of all the good which warmth in brightness brings.
Who counts these other than as trivial things,
Having so much, unmurmuring, left behind
Of all the morning splendours of the mind
And all life's midway majesty and pride?
One great detachment puts the soul aside
From the fair outward fields which Nature owns,
Since some time sadly seeking certain thrones,
Remember'd ever through a world of wrong,
The soul went forth. She, having journey'd long
Amidst the sorrows of secluded tracts,
Among cold snows and frozen cataracts,
Above the common zones of human thought,
One burden of sad knowledge thence has brought:—
That in such altitudes all stars look thin.
So, 'twixt the throne you surely thought to win
19
Where you have dared to stand, the great abyss
Its void unfathom'd offers silently.
Now, hence it is that though the eye may see,
With sight herein it is not satisfied,
Nor is the ear by hearing occupied,
And nothing ministers of all things round.
For as the man who looking to be crown'd
Amidst high pageantry at eve, if left
Outside the palace, of all state bereft,
Would little comfort find that Western skies
Shew over wide meads phantom pageantries,
And though the stars might shine in all their state
Would still keep knocking at the Palace Gate;
So, dedicated unto larger things
Than all solicitudes of earthly kings,
And having strongly striven to ascend
Where great gods are, but having miss'd our end,
By reason of the gulfs which intervene:
What wonder now that all this earthly scene
Spectral and pallid to the soul appear?
With sight herein it is not satisfied,
Nor is the ear by hearing occupied,
And nothing ministers of all things round.
For as the man who looking to be crown'd
Amidst high pageantry at eve, if left
Outside the palace, of all state bereft,
Would little comfort find that Western skies
Shew over wide meads phantom pageantries,
And though the stars might shine in all their state
Would still keep knocking at the Palace Gate;
So, dedicated unto larger things
Than all solicitudes of earthly kings,
And having strongly striven to ascend
Where great gods are, but having miss'd our end,
By reason of the gulfs which intervene:
What wonder now that all this earthly scene
Spectral and pallid to the soul appear?
And this is desolation; hemlock here
We drink henceforth through all the aching void,
Taking the cross of our fair hope destroy'd,
No longer with the scheme of things in touch.
But—lest our mingled cup should over-much
Embitter us, and those whom thought intense
Has worn, seem ravaged by the work of sense,
Like any worldling underneath the sun—
We still remember that which once was done,
When, some time sadly seeking certain thrones,
Beyond the outward fields which Nature owns,
On that last dizzy peak of precipice
We were held only by the great abyss;
And when we most may turn from mortal things
It is in longing for unearthly wings,
Or—at the utmost solitary ridge—
Still in the end to find a secret bridge.
We drink henceforth through all the aching void,
Taking the cross of our fair hope destroy'd,
No longer with the scheme of things in touch.
But—lest our mingled cup should over-much
Embitter us, and those whom thought intense
Has worn, seem ravaged by the work of sense,
Like any worldling underneath the sun—
We still remember that which once was done,
When, some time sadly seeking certain thrones,
Beyond the outward fields which Nature owns,
On that last dizzy peak of precipice
We were held only by the great abyss;
20
It is in longing for unearthly wings,
Or—at the utmost solitary ridge—
Still in the end to find a secret bridge.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |