 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
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 collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |