The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite :: :: University of Virginia Library

One day agone, one weariful,
One day of faded light,
Of shade that chill'd but could not cool,
Of blister'd bloom and blight!
May-day, fay-day, all the world was bright
Till they lured my lady fond—
Esclairmonde—
By an elfin rite.

158

One night agone; the stars have shed
All light in tears; if that be dew,
'Tis meet, since she bewray'd is fled,
That light of verdure follow too!
A venom in the damp distils;
The long, enchanted lawn exhales
An acrid odour; hemlock fills
The wingless air; it dulls and stills
The busy murmur of the vales,
The quicken'd sense which haunts the hills;
And in the mystic thicket kills
With beldam fumes the nightingales.

Avé, Avé! Voices come and go;
Baneful, painful, breathing far and low—
“Esclairmonde”—
Throbbing from the bourne beyond,
Liturgic voices slow.

One moon agone; the moon has ceased
Her hauntings of the starry maze;
There is no light from West to East;
The sun is dead, the skies are haze.
Softness and marsh-warmth and decay
Confuse the swimming seasons here,
Till all is fen from May to May
And deeper haze when June is near.
May-day, fay-day, all the spring turn'd sere
When they brought to Esclairmonde
Smoking censers from beyond.
The dark heavy incense swells;
All the dying dales and dells
Echo still with tinkling bells,
Chimes and spells
Rung from elfin thuribles.

159

One year agone; and Nature bleeds
The sap of life from every vein;
The mould is over-rich; the seeds
Have rotted; an unwholesome stain
Makes lepers of the strongest weeds;
The hemlock only blooms again,
And sickly, fungous growths possess
The monstrous boles of pining trees;
The nightshade at the air's caress
Feeds with more poison these.

Lightly, brightly, all amidst the vapours light,
Underneath soft eyes and fond—
Esclairmonde!—
Elfin vestments white.

Pomp of elfin, pomp of fay,
Blazon'd banners' soothing sway,
Draw thy dreaming soul away—
Through thine eyes enthrall'd—so vow
Gossips of the vacant brow.
I opine, since loss of mine
Better makes the heart divine,
That three maidens, Esclairmonde,
Coming from the bourne beyond,
In the dusk and ghostly mean
Eventide and night between—
Thy sweet face was peering forth
From the window facing North,
The embayëd window North—
Wailing, wailing, drew thee forth.
And although no human hand
Wipes the tears from Faërie Land;
And though never human art
Heals the broken elfin heart;
And no words that man can spell
Shall redeem the tax to hell,

160

They have lured thee, Esclairmonde,
Far beyond;
Choir and incense gone before
And the banners evermore
Dripping with the dreary mist.
They who draw thee know not why;
They are lonely, they persist;
When their spells possess the eye
Seldom human wills resist.

Follow fast and follow fond!
They shall lead thee, Esclairmonde;
And I seek the elfin track
Not to bear thy semblance back,
Since the ghost-world, woe is me,
Touching, makes a wraith of thee!
But to join thy useless quest
And to share thy long unrest—
Esclairmonde, O Esclairmonde!
Homeless, haunted, pass'd beyond,
Wraiths are in the world alone
Where thy steps no more are known.

Thus, a mournful ghost, I take
Woe of mine from bower to brake,
From brake to sodden mead, and see,
Evermore escaping me,
Choir and incense gone before
And the banners evermore,
With fantastic plunge and twist,
Looming strangely in the mist,
As thy pale ghost by maidens three
Evermore removes from me.
Passing every house of rest,
Pass'd love's gateway of the blest,

161

And far into dim lands beyond
The march of muffled music steals;
The incense vista curls and reels;
The low chant dieth far beyond;
Far die the ghostly censer bells,
Confused amid a world of spells.
A ghost behind, a ghost before,
Falls woe on both for evermore,
O Esclairmonde! O Esclairmonde!