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

Great were the taverns where we used to dwell,
Fired by strong cups which we could drain of yore;
The stories great which once we used to tell
And maxims, now repeated never more;
Could any scribe have follow'd us—how great
Were truths we found in cups at early hours and late.

First there was chaos, out of brooding bred—
Silent, inseparate, dispirited—
And yet with shapeless semblances impress'd—
Like one who drinks alone beside the dead,
Breast over breast!—

He, dipping deeply in a vintage rare,
Sees it is his own body lying there,
And, in confusion, calls on ghosts without
As boon companions in his watch to share—
A sorry rout.

So chaos moved, distracted in the night,
Conceiving horror of its depth and height,
Saw self in self reflect with deadly fear;
Till that which cried above, Let there be Light,
Made light appear.

Then all great forces strove its rays to reach—
As travellers at an inn the cups of each—
And Tohu held with Bohu orgie high;
From which creation, full of silver speech,
Sprang by and bye.

Then did the morning stars together sing,
As feasting princes who their glasses ring;
The Dionysian chorus swell'd above;
Joy's shout was lifted upon transport's wing,
As love lifts love.

And still creation holds that joy divine,
As the uplifted cup holds blood-red wine;
And still the Cosmos, in its Mœnad dance,
From age to age, with eyes that brighter shine,
Spins into trance.

We too are copies of the cosmic plan,
From earth's quintessence shaped to make us man,
And that which Nature sketches in first place
We raise through purlieus—out of bar and ban—
Towards gifts of grace.

Like chaos once, we dwelt, old friend, alone,
And drank with cold hearts, foreign to our own,
Or, in our solitude, perchance with none;
So to true life were dead as any stone
Or corpse 'neath sun.

But now through purple hours of Bacchic night
We pass our cups, and in the depth and height
Do each in each reflect with love, not fear;
And—when the heart within us cries for light—
Great lights appear.

We, like the morning stars, together sing,
What time in unison our glasses ring,
With cosmic minds matured in vintage fine,
Exalting ever upon rapture's wing
Æonian wine.

And as creation, on some purpose bent,
Moves grandly forward, fill'd with high content,
We, slowly down the road of years withdrawn,
Note from each tavern where the night is spent
Each breaking dawn.

O world, created in a vintage song,
We know thy goal is good, though ways be long!
Strange cups pass too among the stars encrown'd—
The ecstasy is great, the wine is strong:
What graals are found!