The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
 |
|
|
| I. |
AND HENCE THESE ECSTASIES |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
AND HENCE THESE ECSTASIES
I know—
When the glorious disc of a moon all gold
Moves swan-like over the spaces high,
And lone unattainable tracts of a purple sky.
The air is rapture of clearness, the air is keen
And the air is cold;
The stars dissolve in the Artemisian sheen
But gather and cluster and crowd in the quarters four.
In dark, luxurious olive shadows, the trees
Twist bending branches, high tops that sway and soar
In the search and swathe of a viewless tide.
It rises up on a sudden with shout and roar,
Latent strength of the storm and eager rush,
Or sinks with the soft and languorous sigh of a summer breeze,
Swooning, crooning, soft in the mystic arms of the midnight hush:
So passes the world aside.
When the glorious disc of a moon all gold
Moves swan-like over the spaces high,
And lone unattainable tracts of a purple sky.
The air is rapture of clearness, the air is keen
And the air is cold;
The stars dissolve in the Artemisian sheen
But gather and cluster and crowd in the quarters four.
In dark, luxurious olive shadows, the trees
104
In the search and swathe of a viewless tide.
It rises up on a sudden with shout and roar,
Latent strength of the storm and eager rush,
Or sinks with the soft and languorous sigh of a summer breeze,
Swooning, crooning, soft in the mystic arms of the midnight hush:
So passes the world aside.
I know—
When the shadows lie so rich, so slant, so long,
Over the close-cropp'd lawn which else is white with dew,
Where the misty vistas shine, and the winding paths go through
To thickets beyond the garden-ground and a secret bird in song.
The darkling orbs of the sunflowers, splendidly tall,
Droop in the moon-mist nimbus, dim with a hallowing tinge,
While from their palm-like leaves the thick dews trickle and fall;
And the musk-rich scents of the garden rise
To the overshadowing fringe
Of their gorgeous, golden eyes.
When the shadows lie so rich, so slant, so long,
Over the close-cropp'd lawn which else is white with dew,
Where the misty vistas shine, and the winding paths go through
To thickets beyond the garden-ground and a secret bird in song.
The darkling orbs of the sunflowers, splendidly tall,
Droop in the moon-mist nimbus, dim with a hallowing tinge,
While from their palm-like leaves the thick dews trickle and fall;
And the musk-rich scents of the garden rise
To the overshadowing fringe
Of their gorgeous, golden eyes.
I know—
When at last the uttermost stillness steeps
Rose and lily, and laurel and lilac hedge.
The leaf does not stir on the willow, nor the leaf where the ash-tree weeps,
The topmost twig of the yew and the cypress sleeps—
Like the box of the garden edge.
Solemnly, sweet, serene,
Flowing from vales beyond, and yet beyond from the hills,
A sense magnetic of expectation fills
The palaces sacramental and high-roof'd halls—
In the haunted place of incense, the wondrous place
Earth and its crown between—
With an unvoiced solemn promise of boundless grace.
High over the East's red ramparts, gateways and cloudy walls,
And over a thousand changeful turrets and towers,
The morning glory of heaven blooms over and calls
To morning glories of earth in a thousand bowers.
When at last the uttermost stillness steeps
Rose and lily, and laurel and lilac hedge.
The leaf does not stir on the willow, nor the leaf where the ash-tree weeps,
The topmost twig of the yew and the cypress sleeps—
Like the box of the garden edge.
Solemnly, sweet, serene,
Flowing from vales beyond, and yet beyond from the hills,
A sense magnetic of expectation fills
105
In the haunted place of incense, the wondrous place
Earth and its crown between—
With an unvoiced solemn promise of boundless grace.
High over the East's red ramparts, gateways and cloudy walls,
And over a thousand changeful turrets and towers,
The morning glory of heaven blooms over and calls
To morning glories of earth in a thousand bowers.
I know—
That the high emprize of the life of quest
Traces the pathway slowly which leads to a glorious end,
Clambers a winding stairway which takes to the wondrous height,
Buffets the seas tremendous, but makes for a shining goal:
That never the starry promise which haunts the human soul,
And never the hope which holds so high each head up-turn'd to the light,
Or the great desire which swells and pants in the breast,
Shall into a world of loss and of death descend:
That all we have dared to dream in the loftiest flight
Is only the rumour and noise of a greater gain
Out of all mind and sight:
That if one tittle of all we fail, as it seems, to attain,
It is never because the dream in the heart was fond,
But because of the height which still soars over the height,
Of the light within the light,
And the glory of all the glory withdrawn in the great beyond!
That the high emprize of the life of quest
Traces the pathway slowly which leads to a glorious end,
Clambers a winding stairway which takes to the wondrous height,
Buffets the seas tremendous, but makes for a shining goal:
That never the starry promise which haunts the human soul,
And never the hope which holds so high each head up-turn'd to the light,
Or the great desire which swells and pants in the breast,
Shall into a world of loss and of death descend:
That all we have dared to dream in the loftiest flight
Is only the rumour and noise of a greater gain
Out of all mind and sight:
That if one tittle of all we fail, as it seems, to attain,
It is never because the dream in the heart was fond,
But because of the height which still soars over the height,
Of the light within the light,
And the glory of all the glory withdrawn in the great beyond!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |