The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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THE SECOND SENSE |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
6
THE SECOND SENSE
Renew'd for ever are the lives of books
For every eye that in their pages looks;
And many are the meanings which they bear:
Like limpid depths of lakes and water-brooks,
Does each who reads discern his image there.
For every eye that in their pages looks;
And many are the meanings which they bear:
Like limpid depths of lakes and water-brooks,
Does each who reads discern his image there.
Nature and great books have their second sense,
In still cool wells, and some can charm it thence;
The purports deep by which the soul is stirr'd
Lurk seldom in the manifested word,
As many intimations darkly shew,
Suggesting higher search to those who know.
Far in ourselves the secret meaning lies,
And till we read therein with our own eyes
We miss those heights we dream of and grow lean
Through famish'd longing after things unseen—
Divined, not held.
In still cool wells, and some can charm it thence;
The purports deep by which the soul is stirr'd
Lurk seldom in the manifested word,
As many intimations darkly shew,
Suggesting higher search to those who know.
Far in ourselves the secret meaning lies,
And till we read therein with our own eyes
We miss those heights we dream of and grow lean
Through famish'd longing after things unseen—
Divined, not held.
We give that meaning shapes
Symbolic—in such signs the force escapes.
We take the letter of life's Word; our wit,
In strange metathesis, we wear on it
And so all trace of any point expel.
We say, the Word is lost: but who shall tell?
And who has found? A few fond souls proclaim
Their mission to make known its scope and aim:
O vain assurance of the heart! As if
Earth's wisest speak, except in hieroglyph,
Or offer more than images! The deep
Gives these up; from still tarns of silence leap
Visions and voices, but the things discern'd
Are neither new nor those for which we yearn'd.
One testifies: “The dead in Him abide,
And His forgiveness sets all wrath aside.”
One whispers: “Sweet sleep!” One, with bended head,
Says: “Tears of joy!” One: “Here is Living Bread!”
And an absolving voice, with strength untold
Of pity and sweetness, breathes: “Be then consoled!”
But underneath them all still flows the sea
Of the soul's unexpress'd immensity.
Symbolic—in such signs the force escapes.
We take the letter of life's Word; our wit,
In strange metathesis, we wear on it
And so all trace of any point expel.
We say, the Word is lost: but who shall tell?
And who has found? A few fond souls proclaim
Their mission to make known its scope and aim:
O vain assurance of the heart! As if
Earth's wisest speak, except in hieroglyph,
Or offer more than images! The deep
Gives these up; from still tarns of silence leap
Visions and voices, but the things discern'd
Are neither new nor those for which we yearn'd.
One testifies: “The dead in Him abide,
And His forgiveness sets all wrath aside.”
7
Says: “Tears of joy!” One: “Here is Living Bread!”
And an absolving voice, with strength untold
Of pity and sweetness, breathes: “Be then consoled!”
But underneath them all still flows the sea
Of the soul's unexpress'd immensity.
So leave it therefore, friends—with one last word
I also leave it thus: the sense unheard
Which lies for ever those bright veils behind
Of all the books of Nature and of Mind,
Eluding all approximating art,
Shall yield to—God known truly of the heart.
O did I start in mountain or abyss,
I could not choose but end at last in this!
From wayside taverns turning should behold
That this one key unlocks all towers of gold;
Or rising fever'd out of beds of sin
Most truly feel it and to speak begin;
Nor more in cloisters praying could recall
That this is end of end and all in all.
If things so many underneath the sun
Thus lead me ever to the arms of One,
Ye who do likewise deeply crave, forgive—
Turn to this last again and, turning, live.
I also leave it thus: the sense unheard
Which lies for ever those bright veils behind
Of all the books of Nature and of Mind,
Eluding all approximating art,
Shall yield to—God known truly of the heart.
O did I start in mountain or abyss,
I could not choose but end at last in this!
From wayside taverns turning should behold
That this one key unlocks all towers of gold;
Or rising fever'd out of beds of sin
Most truly feel it and to speak begin;
Nor more in cloisters praying could recall
That this is end of end and all in all.
If things so many underneath the sun
Thus lead me ever to the arms of One,
Ye who do likewise deeply crave, forgive—
Turn to this last again and, turning, live.
So much, without distortion or offence,
A man may venture towards the second sense.
All pools heaven rains in and all seas untrod
Go on reflecting heaven—beyond is God;
And 'twixt the gentleness of Nature's spell
And the unsleeping heights, His people dwell.
A man may venture towards the second sense.
All pools heaven rains in and all seas untrod
Go on reflecting heaven—beyond is God;
And 'twixt the gentleness of Nature's spell
And the unsleeping heights, His people dwell.
Great is the ministry of books, and great
Their consolation in our mean estate;
But bearts, whose aches prolong with every beat,
Find them, like Nature's breathings, incomplete.
Their consolation in our mean estate;
But bearts, whose aches prolong with every beat,
Find them, like Nature's breathings, incomplete.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |