The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
 |
|
|
| I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
IMMANENCE |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
IMMANENCE
The wind without is wild on down and cliff,
But here is perfect shelter. Pause with me,
By this rude stile; and, through those mellow browns
Of autumn bushes on the broken slopes,
Behold the sea below, the vault above,
The mist's thin draperies, the ghost—scarce seen—
Of yon young moon suspended, white and thin!
I count it good to stand, as now we stand,
This resonant September afternoon,
And, past the twisted shapes of elm and beech,
To see the low, slow, sounding waves far down—
Churn'd on the rocks and stain'd by yellow sand—
Advance incessantly. The air is cool:
Now wanes the day! From this glen's marshy slope
Comes subtle fragrance; and that shelving bank,
Where oaks still hold against the stir and stress
Their sering leaves, alone from sight shuts out
A blazing autumn sunset's scene sublime.
But here is perfect shelter. Pause with me,
By this rude stile; and, through those mellow browns
Of autumn bushes on the broken slopes,
Behold the sea below, the vault above,
The mist's thin draperies, the ghost—scarce seen—
Of yon young moon suspended, white and thin!
I count it good to stand, as now we stand,
This resonant September afternoon,
And, past the twisted shapes of elm and beech,
To see the low, slow, sounding waves far down—
Churn'd on the rocks and stain'd by yellow sand—
Advance incessantly. The air is cool:
Now wanes the day! From this glen's marshy slope
Comes subtle fragrance; and that shelving bank,
Where oaks still hold against the stir and stress
Their sering leaves, alone from sight shuts out
A blazing autumn sunset's scene sublime.
The coastguard's cottage windows, facing West,
Are flaming strangely. Now the night descends—
At once the turf looks cold, forlorn and grey!
Our steps retrace! Once more the hill we climb—
Green, orange, crimson—is the world ablaze?
The churn'd sea burning? Are those loose black clouds,
Which, with the wind, pass off from North to East,
The smoke thereof? It is the sunset—see!
Confess the Presence—watch, but speak no more!
Are flaming strangely. Now the night descends—
At once the turf looks cold, forlorn and grey!
Our steps retrace! Once more the hill we climb—
Green, orange, crimson—is the world ablaze?
The churn'd sea burning? Are those loose black clouds,
Which, with the wind, pass off from North to East,
The smoke thereof? It is the sunset—see!
Confess the Presence—watch, but speak no more!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |