The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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A WRAITH-WAY |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
A WRAITH-WAY
Over the bridge and athwart the stream,
By a path that I call my own
Is another land that I visit in dream,
And dreamers term it the world unknown.
The paths are clouded, the hollows are dim,
But a pallid and misty host
Is moving there with a vacant air,
For this is the Land of Ghost.
By a path that I call my own
Is another land that I visit in dream,
And dreamers term it the world unknown.
The paths are clouded, the hollows are dim,
But a pallid and misty host
Is moving there with a vacant air,
For this is the Land of Ghost.
As a Land of Ghost is the Land of Soul:
O Wraiths of the viewless bourne!
Do you hear, as I hear, the waters roll
In the rain of the tears of those who mourn?
The darkness deepens, the darkness spreads:
We shrink from the downward track
Which far through the hollow takes those who follow,
For who that descends comes back?
O Wraiths of the viewless bourne!
Do you hear, as I hear, the waters roll
In the rain of the tears of those who mourn?
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We shrink from the downward track
Which far through the hollow takes those who follow,
For who that descends comes back?
But there falls a night, or a day will dawn,
When a hand unseen lays hold,
And into the hollow we slip—withdrawn
Over the grey lawns shrouded and cold.
Over the brook by the bridge we go,
Sorrowing voices still'd behind;
But dole or laughter, who knows what after,
Or what of the end assign'd?
When a hand unseen lays hold,
And into the hollow we slip—withdrawn
Over the grey lawns shrouded and cold.
Over the brook by the bridge we go,
Sorrowing voices still'd behind;
But dole or laughter, who knows what after,
Or what of the end assign'd?
Who knows! Who knows! From the further side
Perchance on a spectral host,
Far over a resonant, splendid tide,
Back we shall gaze on a Land of Ghost—
For a Land of Ghost is this land of life,
With its phantom joys and woes—
From a great true dream upon pomps which seem,
We shall gaze at that last: who knows?
Perchance on a spectral host,
Far over a resonant, splendid tide,
Back we shall gaze on a Land of Ghost—
For a Land of Ghost is this land of life,
With its phantom joys and woes—
From a great true dream upon pomps which seem,
We shall gaze at that last: who knows?
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |