The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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MINISTRIES OF GRACE |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
279
MINISTRIES OF GRACE
Gates of the grace of God—a thousand gates—
Lie open round us; neither bar nor lock
Prevails; and there is nothing in the world
Which asks to keep its secrets in the heart:
All are set forth for worship. Nature's scrolls
Lie written and over-written everywhere—
Without, within; the hidden meanings sing,
Great symbols shout, till knowledge fills the soul.
Not into gold and gems are common things
Changed suddenly; the precious metal shines,
The jewel, native to the heart of each.
Lie open round us; neither bar nor lock
Prevails; and there is nothing in the world
Which asks to keep its secrets in the heart:
All are set forth for worship. Nature's scrolls
Lie written and over-written everywhere—
Without, within; the hidden meanings sing,
Great symbols shout, till knowledge fills the soul.
Not into gold and gems are common things
Changed suddenly; the precious metal shines,
The jewel, native to the heart of each.
Bear witness, Sons of Song, that not in vain
Shall any man—with God's true gift of eyes—
Explore the windings of a bosky road,
Hedge-bound by spring-time green or summer's wealth;
Through elms and oaks behold in holt or chase
A quiet homestead; watch in welkin light
While rooks round windy nests in circles wheel
And by the symmetry of motion shame
Their own discordant notes; or contemplate
The gracious fusion of a beechen grove
With ancient, sombre, solitary firs.
From grass to star, whatever lives lays bare
Its virtues and an infinite behind.
The eye shall not be satisfied indeed
For evermore with seeing—till an eye
Turns inward, looking for the God within.
Yet each and all of these, or kindred boons,
Reward our sight; and thanks are therefore due—
Alike for object and for instrument—
Till God's transcendence swallows up in fine
God's immanence.
Shall any man—with God's true gift of eyes—
Explore the windings of a bosky road,
Hedge-bound by spring-time green or summer's wealth;
Through elms and oaks behold in holt or chase
A quiet homestead; watch in welkin light
While rooks round windy nests in circles wheel
And by the symmetry of motion shame
Their own discordant notes; or contemplate
The gracious fusion of a beechen grove
With ancient, sombre, solitary firs.
From grass to star, whatever lives lays bare
Its virtues and an infinite behind.
The eye shall not be satisfied indeed
For evermore with seeing—till an eye
Turns inward, looking for the God within.
280
Reward our sight; and thanks are therefore due—
Alike for object and for instrument—
Till God's transcendence swallows up in fine
God's immanence.
My praise is render'd now
For that white mare on pasture grazing yonder,
Her one white foal beside, with one white star
Seal'd on its forehead; for the scent inhaled
This evening early in the month of June,
From hawthorn hedge-fence and from new-mown hay,
Just after rain, ascending. . . . Here I cross
A country-stile and suddenly take note—
Above that stretch of level sward and bush—
How lifting mist leaves bare the downs beyond;
Once and again, while twilight closes round,
How—in the shadow of this old church-porch,
Old tombs beside me—I can hear, far off,
The solemn washing of an open sea,
As if the voice of everness spoke out
In time, news giving of a home for souls.
For that white mare on pasture grazing yonder,
Her one white foal beside, with one white star
Seal'd on its forehead; for the scent inhaled
This evening early in the month of June,
From hawthorn hedge-fence and from new-mown hay,
Just after rain, ascending. . . . Here I cross
A country-stile and suddenly take note—
Above that stretch of level sward and bush—
How lifting mist leaves bare the downs beyond;
Once and again, while twilight closes round,
How—in the shadow of this old church-porch,
Old tombs beside me—I can hear, far off,
The solemn washing of an open sea,
As if the voice of everness spoke out
In time, news giving of a home for souls.
Voice and the Word for ever; timeless sense
Past all this sense of time; an issue found—
Through things that are—into the great and good!
How end then therefore, save in man himself—
That gate which ever, in the least and most,
Swings open Godward? Listen, Sons of Song:
Whoever on the grace of youth or maid
Dwells with pure eyes, heart-fill'd and moved to prayer,
Has kiss'd with worship a responding mouth,
Lays treasures for the heart up . . . Give me still
The end heroic and the term sublime!
All these may lead thereto; love most is path
And makes most also of the mountain-ways.
End, and an end in God—His end and ours!
O crown us at that last for evermore!
Past all this sense of time; an issue found—
Through things that are—into the great and good!
How end then therefore, save in man himself—
That gate which ever, in the least and most,
Swings open Godward? Listen, Sons of Song:
Whoever on the grace of youth or maid
Dwells with pure eyes, heart-fill'd and moved to prayer,
Has kiss'd with worship a responding mouth,
Lays treasures for the heart up . . . Give me still
The end heroic and the term sublime!
All these may lead thereto; love most is path
And makes most also of the mountain-ways.
End, and an end in God—His end and ours!
O crown us at that last for evermore!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |