 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
GABRIEL
Do you remember, wheresoe'er you keep
Your sponsion with eternity, asleep
Or waking, but at least transported now
Beyond all bounds our dreams to earth allow,
And so, I trust, set free from time and space—
Do you remember his unearthly face,
Shining so softly in the temple's band?
If I spoke riddles, you would understand
Who are—I pray!—intelligence unmix'd;
But even then, on secret graces fix'd,
You saw with me great miracles in him,
White-vested walking through the cloisters dim.
Hence, knowing that none except yourself above,
With me below, will penetrate our love,
However plainly stands the written word,
Let me conceal no more, whose heart is stirr'd
To tell outright what then I spoke alone
Either to you, apart in undertone,
Or but in parables to other men.
Far have we travell'd both, 'twixt now and then;
You, as I dream, are something more than earth,
Brought through cold deeps of death to your new birth,
While I have follow'd for so long the shades
And lights reserved in strange and secret grades
For few indeed, that, set from man apart—
In spite of all corruptions of the heart—
Pursuing a peculiar path of quest,
Shunn'd am I or forgotten by the rest.
Your sponsion with eternity, asleep
Or waking, but at least transported now
Beyond all bounds our dreams to earth allow,
And so, I trust, set free from time and space—
Do you remember his unearthly face,
Shining so softly in the temple's band?
If I spoke riddles, you would understand
Who are—I pray!—intelligence unmix'd;
But even then, on secret graces fix'd,
50
White-vested walking through the cloisters dim.
Hence, knowing that none except yourself above,
With me below, will penetrate our love,
However plainly stands the written word,
Let me conceal no more, whose heart is stirr'd
To tell outright what then I spoke alone
Either to you, apart in undertone,
Or but in parables to other men.
Far have we travell'd both, 'twixt now and then;
You, as I dream, are something more than earth,
Brought through cold deeps of death to your new birth,
While I have follow'd for so long the shades
And lights reserved in strange and secret grades
For few indeed, that, set from man apart—
In spite of all corruptions of the heart—
Pursuing a peculiar path of quest,
Shunn'd am I or forgotten by the rest.
As in your ear then, plainly let me tell
When first it was we look'd on Gabriel,
At mass or vespers, guarded, earnest, blythe,
A white-robed, censer-bearing acolythe;
Only a face amidst an incense cloud—
Silent within the chants which swell'd so loud.
Lovely he was, as human beauty goes—
The lily's lustre, the faint blush of rose,
Met in his face; his lips were chaste and fair;
Like a dim nimbus was his auburn hair;
While his deep eyes had caught, as in a net,
All the dark glories of the violet.
Youth though he was, in our two hands we could
Have ta'en his face to kiss as lovers should,
But on his earthly presence had come down
So high a sense of vision and of crown,
That out of any place where lovers lean
And whisper, he, with his uplifted mien,
So bright uprose that, like the ground he trod,
We knew him seal'd and set apart to God.
When first it was we look'd on Gabriel,
At mass or vespers, guarded, earnest, blythe,
A white-robed, censer-bearing acolythe;
Only a face amidst an incense cloud—
Silent within the chants which swell'd so loud.
Lovely he was, as human beauty goes—
The lily's lustre, the faint blush of rose,
Met in his face; his lips were chaste and fair;
Like a dim nimbus was his auburn hair;
While his deep eyes had caught, as in a net,
All the dark glories of the violet.
Youth though he was, in our two hands we could
Have ta'en his face to kiss as lovers should,
But on his earthly presence had come down
So high a sense of vision and of crown,
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And whisper, he, with his uplifted mien,
So bright uprose that, like the ground he trod,
We knew him seal'd and set apart to God.
As Dante standing in the market-ways,
Who saw his blest Madonna many days,
But did, continually spell'd, defer
Each opportunity of speech with her;
We with the boy adored the Sacred Host
But challenged not that spiritual ghost—
Until at length his apparition ceased.
This day, perchance, a consecrated priest,
He celebrates, all fairly alb'd and stoled,
The holy mass at which he served of old.
Well, you are dead, and God is strong to save;
But certain secret matters to my grave
I carry heavily concerning you,
Who were through all so good and more than true:
Still in your heart make them a safe retreat,
If you can do so, at the judgment-seat.
But through the sorrows of your later years,
That boy's face hallow'd you for purer spheres;
'Mid derelictions of my longer road,
So has it also with myself abode.
Still in the vigils of a wakeful night
It serves like prayer because it shines so white,
And brings, in ushering to slumber deep,
Some of their peace who fall in Christ asleep.
Who saw his blest Madonna many days,
But did, continually spell'd, defer
Each opportunity of speech with her;
We with the boy adored the Sacred Host
But challenged not that spiritual ghost—
Until at length his apparition ceased.
This day, perchance, a consecrated priest,
He celebrates, all fairly alb'd and stoled,
The holy mass at which he served of old.
Well, you are dead, and God is strong to save;
But certain secret matters to my grave
I carry heavily concerning you,
Who were through all so good and more than true:
Still in your heart make them a safe retreat,
If you can do so, at the judgment-seat.
But through the sorrows of your later years,
That boy's face hallow'd you for purer spheres;
'Mid derelictions of my longer road,
So has it also with myself abode.
Still in the vigils of a wakeful night
It serves like prayer because it shines so white,
And brings, in ushering to slumber deep,
Some of their peace who fall in Christ asleep.
Old friend, whate'er our early verse may tell,
Here is the mystery of Gabriel;
But the rare seeds sown thus in earth of ours
Once gave us many miracles of flowers;
Fair fruits too promised—what of these to say?—
Oh, you are dead, and he has gone away!
Here is the mystery of Gabriel;
But the rare seeds sown thus in earth of ours
Once gave us many miracles of flowers;
Fair fruits too promised—what of these to say?—
Oh, you are dead, and he has gone away!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |