The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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TO ISLES OF LIGHT |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
VI
TO ISLES OF LIGHT
Blest be this undergrowth! May rain and dew
Increase it still! And blest the tranquil breeze
Which—after cooling showers—has crept across
From dark, rick downs that ring the country round!
Blest too this sky of June, like April's seen:
Glory of sapphire blue, glory of cloud!
Increase it still! And blest the tranquil breeze
Which—after cooling showers—has crept across
From dark, rick downs that ring the country round!
Blest too this sky of June, like April's seen:
Glory of sapphire blue, glory of cloud!
The quiet spirit into trance ascends:
I reach that world where all things dream'd may be—
If by sublimity and virtue they
Can urge a claim on life. I seek therein
That process, hidden in the psychic plane,
Whereby the beauty of a maid elect
May with the glory of essential light
Be inwardly emblazon'd . . . I have found
A secret path; I know the perfect way
Through which the stream of spiritual life
Flows down to re-create the hearts of men.
I reach that world where all things dream'd may be—
If by sublimity and virtue they
Can urge a claim on life. I seek therein
That process, hidden in the psychic plane,
Whereby the beauty of a maid elect
May with the glory of essential light
Be inwardly emblazon'd . . . I have found
A secret path; I know the perfect way
Through which the stream of spiritual life
Flows down to re-create the hearts of men.
I take thee hence; I lead and lead thee on;
The aspiration, the desire, the will
Uplift us both. Thou art no more of earth;
The troubled cosmos of created things
Remotely gleams and glimmers. O the wings
Which bear us now, that other dawn which breaks!
Sword-guarded Eden and those gardens bright,
Those shadow-palaces, those haunted mosques—
Irêm, the wandering city—are in thee
Henceforth the high possession of my soul.
The aspiration, the desire, the will
Uplift us both. Thou art no more of earth;
307
Remotely gleams and glimmers. O the wings
Which bear us now, that other dawn which breaks!
Sword-guarded Eden and those gardens bright,
Those shadow-palaces, those haunted mosques—
Irêm, the wandering city—are in thee
Henceforth the high possession of my soul.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |