 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
A FREE WAY
The green hedge grows by the dull wayside,
And, for no sweet reason or artful sense,
But merely a landmark, rises the fence,
While a gate in that fence stands wide.
Close—on the further side of the hedge—
To the weedy bank is the oozy edge
Of a shoal and torpid pond.
A random foot-way falters beyond,
Its narrow track in the woodland screening.
The hedge is ragged, the shoots spring high;
Through gaps and breaches one sees the sky—
You would doubt if even a dreamer's eye
Could clothe it with secret meaning:
Nor seems that twig, from the rest up-rising
Twelve inches straight in the air or more,
A guide-post pointing an unknown shore
For a good stout heart's emprizing.
And, for no sweet reason or artful sense,
But merely a landmark, rises the fence,
While a gate in that fence stands wide.
Close—on the further side of the hedge—
To the weedy bank is the oozy edge
Of a shoal and torpid pond.
A random foot-way falters beyond,
Its narrow track in the woodland screening.
The hedge is ragged, the shoots spring high;
Through gaps and breaches one sees the sky—
You would doubt if even a dreamer's eye
Could clothe it with secret meaning:
Nor seems that twig, from the rest up-rising
Twelve inches straight in the air or more,
30
For a good stout heart's emprizing.
Yet on certain nights—when the moon is late—
In front of the moon's disc, dark and straight,
With a single leaf will the twig stand clear,
Moved by the night-wind's hand unseen;
And a still small voice in the dreamer's ear
Begins to murmur and keen.
Very softly there, very sadly here,
Sway'd South or North by the viewless hand,
The leaf says: “Here it is Faërie Land!”
And then, more plainly:
“He that looks further is searching vainly:
Near, near—never so near:
The gate is open, the path is free;
It is now, if ever, to hear and see!”
In front of the moon's disc, dark and straight,
With a single leaf will the twig stand clear,
Moved by the night-wind's hand unseen;
And a still small voice in the dreamer's ear
Begins to murmur and keen.
Very softly there, very sadly here,
Sway'd South or North by the viewless hand,
The leaf says: “Here it is Faërie Land!”
And then, more plainly:
“He that looks further is searching vainly:
Near, near—never so near:
The gate is open, the path is free;
It is now, if ever, to hear and see!”
And I see for one—through this message coming
In the midst of the dusk night's drowsy humming—
That to him who can hear and understand
Why this is the entrance of Faërie Land,
May even a twig and a leaf impart
Some secrets hidden in Nature's heart.
Hence I conclude that the end of things
Exceeds not the sweep of an angel's wings,
And, by these spread widely from base to marge,
We know He has given His angels charge.
In the midst of the dusk night's drowsy humming—
That to him who can hear and understand
Why this is the entrance of Faërie Land,
May even a twig and a leaf impart
Some secrets hidden in Nature's heart.
Hence I conclude that the end of things
Exceeds not the sweep of an angel's wings,
And, by these spread widely from base to marge,
We know He has given His angels charge.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |