The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite :: :: University of Virginia Library

A certain Son of the Desire which springs,
From life's heart-deeps unfathom'd, towards the things
Withdrawn in undetermined altitude,
Sat in his silence shrouded and subdued;
On many fragments of his splendid dreams—
Vocations shadow'd forth by ardent schemes
And haunting insights—pondering alone.
But the height's secrets are a world unknown,
And though we recognise in these our rest,
That which we look to find—has heart express'd
Save in the glowing symbols of the heart?
Therefore the quest seems vague, and far apart

Desire stands, vainly reaching towards its end:
So deeper glooms than with the night descend
Fell on the soul of that aspiring Son.

Thereat, a little space and, after, one
Who enter'd softly in the gloom, and fill'd
A seat beside him, said: “Perchance He will'd
To keep us doubtful of the soul's true aim;
But there are earthly gifts—and these are Fame
And Wealth and Honour and all high estate.”
“I also enter'd by that barren gate,”
The Son of Heaven replied, “and surely found
By what strange sorrows is ambition crown'd.”
“Yea,” said the other, “I endured as well.”

To these a third came in, made visible
By shining eyes—and spake: “The ways of Love
Are to be counted, as I deem, above
All other paths, and he who enters them
Has life in fulness and the diadem.”
The Son made answer: “Hast thou counted Loss?”
But he: “My sorrow is my crown and cross;
The tears of Loss are bitter as the sea,
And, sword in heart, behold I wait with thee.”

Then silence follow'd, till a fourth broke in,
Flush'd from the revel, singing: “I am Sin,
And I have known all raptures and the bliss
Of shame which meets with shame, to mix and kiss.”
Then said the Son of the Desire which lifts
The heart in search of the unearthly gifts:
“What wages, brother, doth thy rapture earn?”
“From death they come and unto death return,”
The child of Bacchus and the Mœnads cried,
“And many deaths in life my soul has died;

But I will wait with thee for evermore.”

“Kings of the earth,” said one, who through the door
Had enter'd suddenly, “and crowns of such,
May haply melt to ashes at a touch,
But Knowledge treasures still its proud estate,
And Wisdom's shining grows from less to great.”
“O fair, sweet friend! What therefore knowest thou?”
Spake the First Watcher. But with bended brow
The other answer'd—yea, with eyes which burn'd:
“That dust for ever has to dust return'd;
I also therefore wait dejectedly,
And Truth, though out of sight, perchance is nigh.”

There follow'd him who said: “Though all things fail,
Faith's sacred consolations still avail.”
“Yea,” said the Son, “did we indeed believe,
The star and dust perchance should interweave;
But the star also into dust may fall.”

A deeper silence fill'd that gloomy hall,
And gloom was on the watchers, while the feet
Of hurried passers died along the street.
So all that night the solemn guard was kept:
Some pray'd within them sobbingly, some wept,
As they that melt towards prayer, and other some
Through windows look'd to see if morn would come.
But the air gave up at the darkest hour
A sudden sense of presence and of power,
And where the six had waited through the night,
There stood a Seventh with a guiding light;
Who said: “May peace be with you! I have been
Through the great gates of death, and I have seen
That which I testify as surely true.
Give me your hands, for I am made as you,
And look into mine eyes, and speak my Name.”
Whereat the Watchers cried with one acclaim:

“Master of All, for Thee we waited long
Who to enlighten and to save art strong.”
He answer'd: “Watch with me a little space!”
But they stood raptured, gazing on His face,
So that the world and all therein went by,
And from the eastern heaven the sun rose high.