 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite
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THE POET SPEAKS
With silent steps thou movest, Moon, on high,
For ever keeping thine appointed course!
What hope of rest is thine? What native source
Dost thou for peace seek out? The days go by—
There comes no end in sight, no haven nigh:
What impulse prompts thee on thy starry road?
Ah, shine! Thy splendours bless this dark abode;
With mild effulgence fill the spacious sky.
O Solitary Lady, we have grown—
Our eyes so long on thy long journey fix'd—
Almost content to be, like thee, alone,
In steadfast thought, with other thought unmix'd:
Our paths, like thine, go upward and descend;
Aside we cannot swerve, or see the end.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite
| |
|
