 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
AT THAT DOOR
In the late night—full sorrowful and cold—
I stood by mine own door and knock'd;
White mists against the vacant windows roll'd;
The house was barr'd and lock'd.
I stood by mine own door and knock'd;
White mists against the vacant windows roll'd;
The house was barr'd and lock'd.
The house was lock'd, and desolate and void,
The forecourt wild and damp without;
The rose was scatter'd and the vine destroy'd;
Loose tiles were strewn about.
The forecourt wild and damp without;
The rose was scatter'd and the vine destroy'd;
Loose tiles were strewn about.
From ragged eaves the stealthy moisture dripp'd;
The moss upon the steps was green;
The foot along the reedy pathways slipp'd
On fungus growths unclean.
The moss upon the steps was green;
The foot along the reedy pathways slipp'd
On fungus growths unclean.
24
No link was set within the time-worn sconce,
No lamp in porch to shew the way;
Cypress and yew made ominous response
To wind more sad than they.
No lamp in porch to shew the way;
Cypress and yew made ominous response
To wind more sad than they.
No loving hand was there to let me in,
No voice behind the portal spoke,
But at the knocker's unaccustom'd din
The hall's deep echoes woke.
No voice behind the portal spoke,
But at the knocker's unaccustom'd din
The hall's deep echoes woke.
And yet, meseem'd, I went forth yester morn
From warmth and light and peace within;
Whence, if I tarried in this state forlorn,
Eftsoons must day begin.
From warmth and light and peace within;
Whence, if I tarried in this state forlorn,
Eftsoons must day begin.
But still for ever, in the vapour's shroud,
The moon leans sideways from the sky,
And in the dark East speaks no saffron cloud
Of morrow's morning nigh.
The moon leans sideways from the sky,
And in the dark East speaks no saffron cloud
Of morrow's morning nigh.
Ah, what distress!—By mine own house denied,
Acold beside its portals dumb
And vacant windows, staring blind and wide—
If dawn should never come.
Acold beside its portals dumb
And vacant windows, staring blind and wide—
If dawn should never come.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |