The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
 |
|
|
| I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
SUSPIRIUM |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
SUSPIRIUM
Where art thou?—Where?—Speak to me once—divide
This dreadful hush of death! Cold grave and dark,
Did that hold anything of her I love
Soul-adjuration and heart-agony
Should vitalise the remnants into life—
So should I hear of thee! Thou dost not sleep;
In the wide measures of eternity
Thou art awake, abroad: but where art thou?
Give me a sign upon the sky to know—
Or let thy tears fall, light as softest down
From dreaming swan upon a pool's still breast,
O'er mine uplifted face, if tears be thine.
This dreadful hush of death! Cold grave and dark,
Did that hold anything of her I love
Soul-adjuration and heart-agony
Should vitalise the remnants into life—
So should I hear of thee! Thou dost not sleep;
In the wide measures of eternity
Thou art awake, abroad: but where art thou?
Give me a sign upon the sky to know—
Or let thy tears fall, light as softest down
From dreaming swan upon a pool's still breast,
O'er mine uplifted face, if tears be thine.
Oh lady, thou didst once, a moon at night
Shine burnish'd with a pale and psychic grace,
An argent beauty, toned and soften'd down—
From all hard outlines of reality—
Into a face of dream, which melted all
And the waste world about thee fill'd with love,
As thy soul's magic fill'd the sphere of life!
But after, stricken in a woeful time—
As sometimes night, star-panoplied, supreme
And saturate with artemisian light,
Grows wan before a vague and dreary day,
And earth's moon, dying in the mist distraught,
Turns to a pallid shadow—thou didst wane
And hence the mercy of all-patient God
Was written in agony through my grey youth,
But thou wast martyr'd more who now art crown'd.
So for thy sufferings' sake, my love, my loss
And the long dereliction of my days,
I swore to wear thenceforth a life unstain'd,
That none should suffer who environ'd me:
So did a heart of pity and pure love
With leaping pulses fill the chords of life
And there is none that I have wrong'd—not one.
Shine burnish'd with a pale and psychic grace,
An argent beauty, toned and soften'd down—
From all hard outlines of reality—
Into a face of dream, which melted all
And the waste world about thee fill'd with love,
As thy soul's magic fill'd the sphere of life!
270
As sometimes night, star-panoplied, supreme
And saturate with artemisian light,
Grows wan before a vague and dreary day,
And earth's moon, dying in the mist distraught,
Turns to a pallid shadow—thou didst wane
And hence the mercy of all-patient God
Was written in agony through my grey youth,
But thou wast martyr'd more who now art crown'd.
So for thy sufferings' sake, my love, my loss
And the long dereliction of my days,
I swore to wear thenceforth a life unstain'd,
That none should suffer who environ'd me:
So did a heart of pity and pure love
With leaping pulses fill the chords of life
And there is none that I have wrong'd—not one.
Therefore, I pray thee, let this exile end:
In thy clean hands the spirit I have kept
Pure for thy sake, I place. Let the still air
Give up the soft light of thine eyes; and come—
Come in thy mildness; or, that boon denied,
Strong in my yearning, bid me go to thee!
In thy clean hands the spirit I have kept
Pure for thy sake, I place. Let the still air
Give up the soft light of thine eyes; and come—
Come in thy mildness; or, that boon denied,
Strong in my yearning, bid me go to thee!
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |