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