The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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| A BALLAD OF WHITE MAIDENS |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
139
A BALLAD OF WHITE MAIDENS
The King Speaks
As I walk'd in the moonlight, that garden I found
By strange sorcery compass'd within and around;
Where the voices are muffled, the vistas are blurr'd,
Dense incense makes faint the enamouring word,
And enfolds broider'd vestments or far-flashing gems
Of pontiff's tiaras and king's diadems.
The cups of the tall-springing lilies confuse
With white maidens' faces, moist-eyed, while the dews
Shine ghostlike and pallid on mist-breathing grass,
Where pearl-sprinkled sandals fall light as they pass.
The maid's trailing garments glide softly and raise
Such light stir as June in her slumberous days
Permits to low zephyrs, with pauses between
Lest they wanton too long with the leaf's silver sheen:
Some cooing dove murmurs in languorous elms
Of the dream and the dreamer in reverie's realms.
By strange sorcery compass'd within and around;
Where the voices are muffled, the vistas are blurr'd,
Dense incense makes faint the enamouring word,
And enfolds broider'd vestments or far-flashing gems
Of pontiff's tiaras and king's diadems.
The cups of the tall-springing lilies confuse
With white maidens' faces, moist-eyed, while the dews
Shine ghostlike and pallid on mist-breathing grass,
Where pearl-sprinkled sandals fall light as they pass.
The maid's trailing garments glide softly and raise
Such light stir as June in her slumberous days
Permits to low zephyrs, with pauses between
Lest they wanton too long with the leaf's silver sheen:
Some cooing dove murmurs in languorous elms
Of the dream and the dreamer in reverie's realms.
O willow-sweet maidens! What maidens are these,
Curd-white in the moonlight and honey-lipp'd breeze?
Old voices grow faint, from the summit they fall;
Your measures enchant me, I come at your call.
O faint grow the tocsin, the trumpet, the drum!
Enswathe me, enclose me; white maidens, I come!
Curd-white in the moonlight and honey-lipp'd breeze?
Old voices grow faint, from the summit they fall;
Your measures enchant me, I come at your call.
O faint grow the tocsin, the trumpet, the drum!
Enswathe me, enclose me; white maidens, I come!
Ah, stay me with lilies, sweet press of your faces,
The nearness and warmth of your mystic embraces,
Dissolving the sacred, inviolate state
Which I shared with the dwellers outside of your gate!
By a superincession fantastical, sweet,
I am merged in the maids of this shadow'd retreat;
They are I, I am they, neither many nor one,
As the light and the warmth from the fount of the sun.
The nearness and warmth of your mystic embraces,
Dissolving the sacred, inviolate state
Which I shared with the dwellers outside of your gate!
By a superincession fantastical, sweet,
I am merged in the maids of this shadow'd retreat;
They are I, I am they, neither many nor one,
As the light and the warmth from the fount of the sun.
140
The King Sleeps
Within the charm'd walls is a place of delight,
And a world from its windows shines strange to the sight,
In the pomp of deep night and high glory of day,
Where the long golden prospects stretch shining away.
With pennons and banners the pageants pass by,
And the crash of their music goes up to the sky:
The centre and shrine is this paradise fair,
And crown'd midst his maidens the monarch is there.
O wrapp'd all about by a ministry blest
And the intimate sense of the garden of rest,
How vague are the legends, the memories dim
Of the King's distant country surviving for him!
But a hint in the stars, but a voice in the wind,
An echo of canticles lost to the mind,
Welling up from the depths in the sea's organ voice,
Bear witness how far he has err'd in his choice.
And a world from its windows shines strange to the sight,
In the pomp of deep night and high glory of day,
Where the long golden prospects stretch shining away.
With pennons and banners the pageants pass by,
And the crash of their music goes up to the sky:
The centre and shrine is this paradise fair,
And crown'd midst his maidens the monarch is there.
O wrapp'd all about by a ministry blest
And the intimate sense of the garden of rest,
How vague are the legends, the memories dim
Of the King's distant country surviving for him!
But a hint in the stars, but a voice in the wind,
An echo of canticles lost to the mind,
Welling up from the depths in the sea's organ voice,
Bear witness how far he has err'd in his choice.
In the garden are stairways and turrets and towers;
'Twas spring when he enter'd, and sweet were the flowers;
The maidens sang ballads, how blithe to the heart!
All bells rang the nuptials of Nature and Art;
And the world to the walls in high carnival came,
Bright eyes full of rapture, bright faces aflame.
But what of that moaning when music is still'd—
That ache in the pause which no pageant has fill'd?
'Twas spring when he enter'd, and sweet were the flowers;
The maidens sang ballads, how blithe to the heart!
All bells rang the nuptials of Nature and Art;
And the world to the walls in high carnival came,
Bright eyes full of rapture, bright faces aflame.
But what of that moaning when music is still'd—
That ache in the pause which no pageant has fill'd?
The garden has hill-tops, the stars live above;
It is summertide now and the earth is all love;
Those maids in full chorus sing jubilant odes;
A glory abides in the vistas and roads.
O high the emprizes and high the renown,
But the King hath his maidens, the King hath his crown
Now, what of the whispers which hint in his sleep?
Do hearts never sorrow? Do eyes never weep?
The garden has sycamores stately and old;
O the time is rich autumn; these leaves are all gold,
Round maids in the moonlight, high-seeming and soft;
But a mist looking mournful envelopes them oft:
With a voice full of loss falls the wave on the strand;
Lone horsemen ride hurriedly far through the land;
Cold sleet against windows beats heavy and drives
On the overblown blooms and the bees' ravish'd hives.
All voice in that garden dies down in a dirge,
And the King hath his sorrow to crown him and scourge.
Far, far through the windows his vision is strain'd;
The young have grown old, and the old have not gain'd
Save in sense of illusion and measureless loss;
So the weary wayfarer goes dragging his cross
O'er the stones of the road to the hills out of reach,
Where storms utter faintly their ominous speech.
'Mid the ghosts of the maidens, in vain let him roam,
And remember at last how he strayed from his home!
It is summertide now and the earth is all love;
Those maids in full chorus sing jubilant odes;
A glory abides in the vistas and roads.
O high the emprizes and high the renown,
But the King hath his maidens, the King hath his crown
Now, what of the whispers which hint in his sleep?
Do hearts never sorrow? Do eyes never weep?
141
O the time is rich autumn; these leaves are all gold,
Round maids in the moonlight, high-seeming and soft;
But a mist looking mournful envelopes them oft:
With a voice full of loss falls the wave on the strand;
Lone horsemen ride hurriedly far through the land;
Cold sleet against windows beats heavy and drives
On the overblown blooms and the bees' ravish'd hives.
All voice in that garden dies down in a dirge,
And the King hath his sorrow to crown him and scourge.
Far, far through the windows his vision is strain'd;
The young have grown old, and the old have not gain'd
Save in sense of illusion and measureless loss;
So the weary wayfarer goes dragging his cross
O'er the stones of the road to the hills out of reach,
Where storms utter faintly their ominous speech.
'Mid the ghosts of the maidens, in vain let him roam,
And remember at last how he strayed from his home!
Deep frost in the garden, the maidens are dead;
The King is a-cold, with the snows on his head;
Through the rime on the windows forth-looking sees he
The dearth and the dark when the glory should be.
Where now are the stars and the altitude keen,
All the music of old in the shining demesne,
With fellowships lofty, reserved to adorn
That secret pageant and state inborn?
The heart cannot dream it, though hearts may yearn,
Nor a way of attainment the eye discern;
But the King in his garden, of all bereft,
Knows that which was priceless for this was left—
For a paradise fated with time to end,
The Place of that Vision whence Kings descend.
So over the desolate, lonely road
Dim thoughts strain forth from his waste abode,
And hope for a herald with tidings sent
From the land withdrawn of the soul's content;
For a beacon speaking the darkness through
Of the light beyond and the further blue;
Past all sea-cries, for a distant tone
From the royal realm which was once his own.
The King is a-cold, with the snows on his head;
Through the rime on the windows forth-looking sees he
The dearth and the dark when the glory should be.
Where now are the stars and the altitude keen,
All the music of old in the shining demesne,
With fellowships lofty, reserved to adorn
That secret pageant and state inborn?
The heart cannot dream it, though hearts may yearn,
Nor a way of attainment the eye discern;
But the King in his garden, of all bereft,
Knows that which was priceless for this was left—
For a paradise fated with time to end,
The Place of that Vision whence Kings descend.
So over the desolate, lonely road
Dim thoughts strain forth from his waste abode,
And hope for a herald with tidings sent
From the land withdrawn of the soul's content;
142
Of the light beyond and the further blue;
Past all sea-cries, for a distant tone
From the royal realm which was once his own.
The King's Going Forth
When will they come to him? Come they now?Falls there a gleam on his clouded brow?
The wasting garden is moist and wan;
Far has the King of the garden gone!
Whither he travels and what may chance—
Whether restored from the lifelong trance,
Whether to tarry in exile far
Where other illusive gardens are—
Who shall acquaint us? He that knows
The one true place for a King's repose,
And, long though he travel the outward track,
That the King came forth and the King goes back.
CLAVIS ABSCONDITORUM
Therefore, perchance, at a time assign'dSome key to the mystery Kings may find,
Why maidens five in a garden dwell
And Kings delude by their potent spell.
Peace on the King through his ways attend;
All things lead him to reach his end;
Stars be his pathway and suns his track,
For the King comes forth and the King goes back!
Epilogue
Ballad of maidens white to see,All are spelling thy mystery;
Faint is the music and low the tone:
Lead us still, lead us to reach our own!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |