 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
271
FRAGMENTUM
I look behind on all my former life,
The masque of strange succession in events,
The weirds unfinish'd, the impending dooms,
Whereon, with even mind, with chosen speech,
I muse this day; while, sunk in deepest thought,
Thou standest by me, patient, unperturb'd.
Leaf-blinds are drawn; the late sun shines without
On wide green meadows; all this bower is fill'd
With things familiar. Thou, reserved and cold,
Dost hear my tale; setting and atmosphere—
How formal, friend, and yet what secret things!
What thoughts! What dark thoughts, haunting evermore!
The masque of strange succession in events,
The weirds unfinish'd, the impending dooms,
Whereon, with even mind, with chosen speech,
I muse this day; while, sunk in deepest thought,
Thou standest by me, patient, unperturb'd.
Leaf-blinds are drawn; the late sun shines without
On wide green meadows; all this bower is fill'd
With things familiar. Thou, reserved and cold,
Dost hear my tale; setting and atmosphere—
How formal, friend, and yet what secret things!
What thoughts! What dark thoughts, haunting evermore!
A sudden flash, before the eyes of mind
Passing at times, takes all our heart away,
As rapture caught Elias: we are lost
To earth and time, far in some place of dream.
As sees the warden of the castle walls,
How stretch the pastures wide and darkling woods,
How the vales dimple, how the light streams wind,
What silver shining speaks of sea beyond—
So in light richer than our landscapes know,
Yon ocean splendour, past all fair romance,
Interprets its bright pictures to the heart
By words no more, but living images.
Once, from the realms thereof, we drew that light,
Exalting Nature; but the thoughts, my friend—
The dark, dread thoughts—the deeps behind the gleam,
And in those depths abysses, gloom unpierced!
Passing at times, takes all our heart away,
As rapture caught Elias: we are lost
To earth and time, far in some place of dream.
As sees the warden of the castle walls,
How stretch the pastures wide and darkling woods,
How the vales dimple, how the light streams wind,
What silver shining speaks of sea beyond—
So in light richer than our landscapes know,
Yon ocean splendour, past all fair romance,
Interprets its bright pictures to the heart
By words no more, but living images.
Once, from the realms thereof, we drew that light,
Exalting Nature; but the thoughts, my friend—
The dark, dread thoughts—the deeps behind the gleam,
And in those depths abysses, gloom unpierced!
Now that this avenue of trees is pass'd,
Take breath. The road slopes after; its descent
Is steep to reach the streamlet, and with stones
Made rough—to save the horses. Do you mark
That little bridge which spans the burn? Our path
Goes over it. Before us to the left
An old church looms; a growth of ivy there
Shews in the evening light its splendid green
On tower and nave. A dial all the day
Tells time in silence on the southern side.
Here swirls the shallow water; did you catch
That flashing fin? See, in this hole curl'd round,
A speckled eel is sleeping. So we reach
The long white-fronted house. Who dwells therein?
Patience! The water on a single side
Washes the ample lawn; at brink thereof,
Wide spreads the walnut-tree, a stately growth,
Its broad, rich leaves above the waters drooping.
Peace, brother soul! here is the trysting-place.
272
Is steep to reach the streamlet, and with stones
Made rough—to save the horses. Do you mark
That little bridge which spans the burn? Our path
Goes over it. Before us to the left
An old church looms; a growth of ivy there
Shews in the evening light its splendid green
On tower and nave. A dial all the day
Tells time in silence on the southern side.
Here swirls the shallow water; did you catch
That flashing fin? See, in this hole curl'd round,
A speckled eel is sleeping. So we reach
The long white-fronted house. Who dwells therein?
Patience! The water on a single side
Washes the ample lawn; at brink thereof,
Wide spreads the walnut-tree, a stately growth,
Its broad, rich leaves above the waters drooping.
Peace, brother soul! here is the trysting-place.
Perchance things lesser in the end shall save
Things greater, and the least is also first.
Things greater, and the least is also first.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |