The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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THE WIDER PROSPECTS |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
THE WIDER PROSPECTS
On level meads, as smooth as garden lawns,
Rooks swarm with gleaming plumage, then—with screams
Discordant—rise and circle high in air!—
God's splendour brightens now their peaceful flight,
To giant elms returning—dizzy nests,
Poised in the air triumphant.
Rooks swarm with gleaming plumage, then—with screams
Discordant—rise and circle high in air!—
God's splendour brightens now their peaceful flight,
To giant elms returning—dizzy nests,
Poised in the air triumphant.
Here my road
Reveals the open country. I see slopes
Of verdant green, wide fields and marshy lands
Low-lying; I see misty hills against
The distant sky, in outline dimly limn'd—
A long blue line. The land is dark with trees,
Far and away beyond me winds the road,
Ascending; as I follow, evermore
The prospect widens—round me hills and hills,
And round me all things in the clear, sweet air
Give back the sunset light. Soft winds are held
By silver spells of silence.
Reveals the open country. I see slopes
Of verdant green, wide fields and marshy lands
Low-lying; I see misty hills against
The distant sky, in outline dimly limn'd—
A long blue line. The land is dark with trees,
Far and away beyond me winds the road,
Ascending; as I follow, evermore
The prospect widens—round me hills and hills,
And round me all things in the clear, sweet air
Give back the sunset light. Soft winds are held
62
The whole earth
Seems mine, and shortly will all heaven put forth
Stars o'er my path. Methinks, this road so broad,
So brown, so pleasant, like the rover's life,
Goes on for ever; it is steep, it curves,
It leaps and dips; it follows all the vale,
Then takes a spiral course to climb the slope,
So to be lost amidst a world of downs.
Here silver willows in the evening wind
Begin to stir; by hedges do the oaks
Rich foliage rustle; on the open mead
A brown horse browses, while in one beyond
A stalwart beast—with black and burnish'd sides—
Draws on the loaded wain to reach the track;
And at that bend he gains it. As I walk
Behind, a dry and subtle incense fills
The cool air round me; but I hasten now
And see the farm before me: so mine eyes
At every turn are met by something new
Which gratifies the senses and the mind.
Seems mine, and shortly will all heaven put forth
Stars o'er my path. Methinks, this road so broad,
So brown, so pleasant, like the rover's life,
Goes on for ever; it is steep, it curves,
It leaps and dips; it follows all the vale,
Then takes a spiral course to climb the slope,
So to be lost amidst a world of downs.
Here silver willows in the evening wind
Begin to stir; by hedges do the oaks
Rich foliage rustle; on the open mead
A brown horse browses, while in one beyond
A stalwart beast—with black and burnish'd sides—
Draws on the loaded wain to reach the track;
And at that bend he gains it. As I walk
Behind, a dry and subtle incense fills
The cool air round me; but I hasten now
And see the farm before me: so mine eyes
At every turn are met by something new
Which gratifies the senses and the mind.
All suddenly the golden air is changed
To purple, passing swiftly into grey,
And there is mist about me; it is chill:
The sense of sadness settles, but I reach
A clear space free upon the West and pause
To mark, in contrast, certain blurr'd, green trees
Thrown on a vivid and illumined sky—
Ere night one hour has fallen—O first star,
With lamp enkindled in the South so high!—
To mark it and to worship. Now the moon,
Out from bleak vapours of the East, aglow,
With not one touch of sadness, o'er the marsh
Her orb uplifts. How fair, how sweet, how blue,
Looks the high zenith, with faint clouds involved!
And as the summer breeze, from flute-notes soft,
Turns to a resonant wind and boldly calls
Among the echoing hills, my transient mood
Of graveness passes, for the night is strong,
And passionately the voices of the night
Speak to deep wells within the heart of man,
Till the deep wells make answer. I, at least,
Walking in summer on the winding road,
With downs about me, with the moon above—
With the bright moon which, as it rises, pours
A light increasing through the lilac sky—
Amidst the wine-like fragrance of the air,
Hear depth to depth make answer, height to height.
To purple, passing swiftly into grey,
And there is mist about me; it is chill:
The sense of sadness settles, but I reach
A clear space free upon the West and pause
To mark, in contrast, certain blurr'd, green trees
Thrown on a vivid and illumined sky—
Ere night one hour has fallen—O first star,
With lamp enkindled in the South so high!—
To mark it and to worship. Now the moon,
Out from bleak vapours of the East, aglow,
With not one touch of sadness, o'er the marsh
Her orb uplifts. How fair, how sweet, how blue,
Looks the high zenith, with faint clouds involved!
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Turns to a resonant wind and boldly calls
Among the echoing hills, my transient mood
Of graveness passes, for the night is strong,
And passionately the voices of the night
Speak to deep wells within the heart of man,
Till the deep wells make answer. I, at least,
Walking in summer on the winding road,
With downs about me, with the moon above—
With the bright moon which, as it rises, pours
A light increasing through the lilac sky—
Amidst the wine-like fragrance of the air,
Hear depth to depth make answer, height to height.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |