 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
THE ROSY CROSS
I saw before me loom an ancient house;
One portal there, with mystic words inscribed,
Had in its centre graved, the single horn
Ascending—sign of the immortal mind
Which rules for ever and is ruled by none,
Because united to the Law Divine
'Tis made for ever to itself a law—
Thy burning star, dread, potent Pentagram!
One portal there, with mystic words inscribed,
Had in its centre graved, the single horn
Ascending—sign of the immortal mind
Which rules for ever and is ruled by none,
Because united to the Law Divine
'Tis made for ever to itself a law—
Thy burning star, dread, potent Pentagram!
Before that threshold in the morn's first light,
In wonder lost, in ecstasy of joy,
I stood: Thou spirit to the end attain'd,
Thou crown'd adept, thy long probation done.
Was that the Temple of the Rose and Cross?
Speak, hierophant!
In wonder lost, in ecstasy of joy,
I stood: Thou spirit to the end attain'd,
Thou crown'd adept, thy long probation done.
Was that the Temple of the Rose and Cross?
Speak, hierophant!
Who stands in starry white?
Who leads me in? Smooth gleams his golden hair,
With comely features mortified and mild,
Cheeks tinged with flower-pale pink! Whose eyes are those
Which in the sunshine seem like golden grey,
Elsewhere as violets deep? His mien is high;
He bears the fragrance of the morning rose
Round all his form; his hand is raised to bless.
Whene'er his eyes look up all heaven looks down;
About his path the snowdrop sprouts in spring,
Burst buds in blossom upon thorn and tree;
His voice all solitudes, all silent peaks,
And all the spacious, cool, translucent air,
Fills with melodious souls. His name is Spring;
His name is Eos, born of dews and light;
His are a thousand names in one contain'd.
Before the Threshold of the Mysteries,
Before the Temple of the Rose and Cross,
Before the secret, sacred, inmost shrine,
In white refulgent, as he wont, array'd,
He stands in beauty and with open hands
He welcomes in:—“The Light of Christus!” cries,
“Eternal Truth!” And ranged in lines behind,
I see the sages and the scalds of old,
A thousand pontiffs and a thousand kings!
Shines Moses there, and Plato brightly shines;
And I see the Hermes of the Burning Belt,
The “thrice great Hermes,” stand with Enoch there!
Who leads me in? Smooth gleams his golden hair,
With comely features mortified and mild,
Cheeks tinged with flower-pale pink! Whose eyes are those
Which in the sunshine seem like golden grey,
Elsewhere as violets deep? His mien is high;
He bears the fragrance of the morning rose
Round all his form; his hand is raised to bless.
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About his path the snowdrop sprouts in spring,
Burst buds in blossom upon thorn and tree;
His voice all solitudes, all silent peaks,
And all the spacious, cool, translucent air,
Fills with melodious souls. His name is Spring;
His name is Eos, born of dews and light;
His are a thousand names in one contain'd.
Before the Threshold of the Mysteries,
Before the Temple of the Rose and Cross,
Before the secret, sacred, inmost shrine,
In white refulgent, as he wont, array'd,
He stands in beauty and with open hands
He welcomes in:—“The Light of Christus!” cries,
“Eternal Truth!” And ranged in lines behind,
I see the sages and the scalds of old,
A thousand pontiffs and a thousand kings!
Shines Moses there, and Plato brightly shines;
And I see the Hermes of the Burning Belt,
The “thrice great Hermes,” stand with Enoch there!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |