The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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QUIET NIGHT AND PERFECT END |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
QUIET NIGHT AND PERFECT END
The desert cries for the city,
The city, from strife and stress
Of the weary weeks, for a refuge seeks
In the cave and the wilderness.
The city, from strife and stress
Of the weary weeks, for a refuge seeks
In the cave and the wilderness.
I know that the marsh, exhaling
White mists to a liquid star,
In the windless night to a sacred height
Aspires, and the light afar.
White mists to a liquid star,
In the windless night to a sacred height
Aspires, and the light afar.
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I know that the woods wind-driven
Send thoughts—with a bird on high—
Through white cloud-clusters, when young March blusters,
For the peace of a purple sky.
Send thoughts—with a bird on high—
Through white cloud-clusters, when young March blusters,
For the peace of a purple sky.
The torrents pour through their chasms
To the unplumb'd wells below,
And to ocean's vastness, with a sure flight's fastness,
All eager waters flow.
To the unplumb'd wells below,
And to ocean's vastness, with a sure flight's fastness,
All eager waters flow.
But O the city, the desert,
The founts, the marshes, the streams,
Wild waters falling, which are crying and calling
As they roll, O Soul, in thy dreams!
The founts, the marshes, the streams,
Wild waters falling, which are crying and calling
As they roll, O Soul, in thy dreams!
Earth knows not what it is seeking,
Though still to the search impell'd;
But thou can'st divine what an end is thine
And the course to that end withheld.
Though still to the search impell'd;
But thou can'st divine what an end is thine
And the course to that end withheld.
Thou hast sought in the city and desert;
Thou hast sought in the height and deep;
Though the goal to win is not found therein;
Yet a certain trance or sleep,
Thou hast sought in the height and deep;
Though the goal to win is not found therein;
Yet a certain trance or sleep,
'Twixt space and time, gives issue
By a wonderful path and lone,
Leading keen and straight to a mystical gate,
And beyond the gate it is known.
By a wonderful path and lone,
Leading keen and straight to a mystical gate,
And beyond the gate it is known.
It is known, the end of the vision
Which is neither to East nor West,
And the North cannot tell it, nor the sweet South spell it,
But the end of that path is rest.
Which is neither to East nor West,
And the North cannot tell it, nor the sweet South spell it,
But the end of that path is rest.
The high thoughts reel and waver,
And sense in that realm untrod
Has bonds unbelted and cinctures melted,
But the end of the path is God!
And sense in that realm untrod
Has bonds unbelted and cinctures melted,
But the end of the path is God!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |