 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite
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VALE
Good-night; the hour is late, the house is cold,
The fires have smoulder'd down, the lamps are spent,
And all the visitors that came and went,
Sleep—which I also need—doth now enfold.
Late, late it grows: how long before we meet—
Beyond the fells, the fastness, the abyss?
O ways too far for over-weary feet!
O heart uncertain what the true goal is!
Somehow, somewhere, in darkness or rich gleam,
Yet shall we meet! Till then—good-night, sweet dream!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite
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