The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite in two volumes ... With a Portrait |
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 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
INSUFFICIENCY
Thou, having seen it, art thou satisfied?—
That platform of the morning bulges wide
Above the purple gorges, in the dim,
Exalted light. Far down the sea-mews swim;
Far down the breakers on the crags expend
Their strength in gulfs where never men descend
And thou, awhile from sea and shore aloof,
Art as one issued on a palace-roof
In Esclair-Monde, from its exalted tiers
Gazing serenely-down on moving spheres,
And far above the night's infolding arch
Beholding systems in their stately march,
With dark, dead stars lamenting as they glide:
Say, having seen this, art thou satisfied?
That platform of the morning bulges wide
Above the purple gorges, in the dim,
Exalted light. Far down the sea-mews swim;
Far down the breakers on the crags expend
Their strength in gulfs where never men descend
And thou, awhile from sea and shore aloof,
Art as one issued on a palace-roof
In Esclair-Monde, from its exalted tiers
Gazing serenely-down on moving spheres,
76
Beholding systems in their stately march,
With dark, dead stars lamenting as they glide:
Say, having seen this, art thou satisfied?
Alas, the halting accents of thy speech
Can scarce another thine experience teach,
Nor can thy brain, by wonders overwrought,
Shape as thou wouldst the higher course of thought,
Since in reflection's hush do thoughts most come!
So pass the moods of ecstasy to some
More temper'd state, which knows not throne or crown,
And at the last thou goest slowly down,
With weaker steps, along the arduous slope,
Somewhat disorder'd with thy former hope—
A little dazed—but conscious on the whole
That these high places cannot fill the soul;
That Nature's peaks, which few before have trod,
Do not specifically lead to God,
And are not therefore of the soul's concern.
Only when recollections shall return
In after hours, the soul may then look back,
From quiet ways, up the precipitous track,
Where saffron morning o'er the sea spreads fair,
And know that the soul's ends are everywhere.
Can scarce another thine experience teach,
Nor can thy brain, by wonders overwrought,
Shape as thou wouldst the higher course of thought,
Since in reflection's hush do thoughts most come!
So pass the moods of ecstasy to some
More temper'd state, which knows not throne or crown,
And at the last thou goest slowly down,
With weaker steps, along the arduous slope,
Somewhat disorder'd with thy former hope—
A little dazed—but conscious on the whole
That these high places cannot fill the soul;
That Nature's peaks, which few before have trod,
Do not specifically lead to God,
And are not therefore of the soul's concern.
Only when recollections shall return
In after hours, the soul may then look back,
From quiet ways, up the precipitous track,
Where saffron morning o'er the sea spreads fair,
And know that the soul's ends are everywhere.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |