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

To silent worlds of music, open'd up
Within the present scheme and scope of things
By audible solemnities of sound,
My soul slipp'd through, and traversed endless groves
Of immemorial melody. A storm
Of choral praise, unprefaced, with a crash
Burst on me then, the language of dead gods,
And drew me back amidst a Temple's types—
Sign-words and sacraments of mystery.
So to the end it held me, magnet-wise,

Till thyrsus-bearers pass'd and hierophants;
But when the darken'd Fane reserved alone
The secret god, I follow'd from afar
Behind a veil into the vestibule,
And saw grey ashes of the charcoal fire
Shew one faint spark; the open window shew'd,
All bent and twisted through the floral wilds,
A woodland path whence myrrh-like odours rose;
Low voices came from violets and faint
Song-bursts of birds invisible.

Through such
High offices, the heart, whose seeing sense
Follows election, having Nature heard—
As Nature speaks—has taken to itself
A certain message and the most withdrawn—
To wit, those deeps within the living masque
Of days. Thereafter, in pursuit of signs
More eloquent, of greater testaments,
The heart takes counsel with the sanctuary
And finds the Holy of the Holies, past
All Holy Places, yet at times looks forth,
Where all the chancels of the world without—
Which after their own manner sang of old—
Do now in likeness of One Voice intone.
The chancel walls, expanding thereupon,
Take Nature in; exalting Nature gives
At every point upon the Temple's gates;
And if the fires and lights expend in fine,
Her lights, her fires, assume on man's behalf
The offices—not antiphons alone
Reciting, but responses order'd well.
If therefore priests at altars fall asleep,
And in their stalls the choirs forget the Rites,
No psaltery is wanting in the world.