 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
147
Envoy
At evening the light of a lone star fell through the lilac gloaming and gloom,But a voice fell with it, meseem'd, in the midst of that choric spell, on the sorcery craft and bloom,
And, stilling the pulse of a thousand strings,
Said: Sails may fail thee, but wings—take wings!
Then suddenly out of the land withdrew
The savour, the music, the scent, the hue;
A curtain of darkness droop'd from the sky
On the Blessed Life of Sorcery.
That star in the distance sings and sings;
I have burn'd my ships, but I come with wings;
O'er the wall at the world's end, eyes of pity
Shine on the quest for the Mystic City.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |