 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
III
But still, in the hush and the haunting, I stand, even I, by the shore,
And the sea in the sunshine crooning pervades me with deep unrest,
For it speaks of the Quest, of the Quest—
With a torrent of tongues in a thousand tones
And a far-off murmur of viewless zones,
Old and new, new and old, of the Quest;
Amen, it speaks evermore!
The whole wide world of voice and of rushing sound
You may seek through vainly,
But never a voice is found
To search the soul with such deep unrest,
Or to speak of the Quest
So plainly.
And the sea in the sunshine crooning pervades me with deep unrest,
For it speaks of the Quest, of the Quest—
With a torrent of tongues in a thousand tones
And a far-off murmur of viewless zones,
Old and new, new and old, of the Quest;
Amen, it speaks evermore!
132
You may seek through vainly,
But never a voice is found
To search the soul with such deep unrest,
Or to speak of the Quest
So plainly.
Then surely thither the Quest's way lies
And a man shall not err therein;
Yet not on the surface surely seen with eyes,
For thence the swallow has come and thereon the seamew flies;
And the haunting ships with tremulous sails, we learn,
For ever about it hover, pass to their place and return;
And over the wastes thereof the tempests ravage and burn,
Or the sea-spouts spin.
But not of these is the Quest;
In the deep, in the deep it lies—
Ah, let me plunge therein!
And a man shall not err therein;
Yet not on the surface surely seen with eyes,
For thence the swallow has come and thereon the seamew flies;
And the haunting ships with tremulous sails, we learn,
For ever about it hover, pass to their place and return;
And over the wastes thereof the tempests ravage and burn,
Or the sea-spouts spin.
But not of these is the Quest;
In the deep, in the deep it lies—
Ah, let me plunge therein!
But the caves of the deep are silent, and the halls of the deep are still;
Not there is the clarion bird
Or the wind's loud organ heard;
No blythe voice cries on the hill.
Not there is the clarion bird
Or the wind's loud organ heard;
No blythe voice cries on the hill.
A sail, a sail for the seaman, sailing East and West;
And a horse for the rover when he goeth over the dappled down and road!
But a man may better remain in his own abode
Who is vow'd to the wonderful end which crowns the Quest;
For sail and compass, and coach and steed and the rest,
The king's highway, and the beaten track, and the great sea-road—
Are these the way of the Quest?
And a horse for the rover when he goeth over the dappled down and road!
But a man may better remain in his own abode
Who is vow'd to the wonderful end which crowns the Quest;
For sail and compass, and coach and steed and the rest,
The king's highway, and the beaten track, and the great sea-road—
Are these the way of the Quest?
133
Travel, travel and search, eyes that are eager glisten
(To-day is perchance too late),
I stand on the marge and listen
(To-morrow is stored with fate);
I stand on the marge and wait.
I know that the deep, with its secret, is a sacramental hymn.
Enough that it speaks to me vaguely with meanings reserved and dim,
Saga and rune of eld;
Enough that its volume and grandeur hint the great tale withheld;
While, far through the depth and the darkness, the echoing halls of the soul
Reply to the roar and the roll,
Themselves in the mystery-tongue,
All the world over sung,
As the sibyl awaking from dream
In oracles hints at the theme
That has never been spoken or spell'd.
(To-day is perchance too late),
I stand on the marge and listen
(To-morrow is stored with fate);
I stand on the marge and wait.
I know that the deep, with its secret, is a sacramental hymn.
Enough that it speaks to me vaguely with meanings reserved and dim,
Saga and rune of eld;
Enough that its volume and grandeur hint the great tale withheld;
While, far through the depth and the darkness, the echoing halls of the soul
Reply to the roar and the roll,
Themselves in the mystery-tongue,
All the world over sung,
As the sibyl awaking from dream
In oracles hints at the theme
That has never been spoken or spell'd.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |