The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite :: :: University of Virginia Library

“O sacramenta lucis creatæ, O signa, omnium apparentium, ad exitum felicem perducite, ad finem nostrum perfectum, in lumine Dei increato, in mysterio signato ineffabile.”—De Concordia Dei et Animæ.

139

A BALLAD OF WHITE MAIDENS

The King Speaks

As I walk'd in the moonlight, that garden I found
By strange sorcery compass'd within and around;
Where the voices are muffled, the vistas are blurr'd,
Dense incense makes faint the enamouring word,
And enfolds broider'd vestments or far-flashing gems
Of pontiff's tiaras and king's diadems.
The cups of the tall-springing lilies confuse
With white maidens' faces, moist-eyed, while the dews
Shine ghostlike and pallid on mist-breathing grass,
Where pearl-sprinkled sandals fall light as they pass.
The maid's trailing garments glide softly and raise
Such light stir as June in her slumberous days
Permits to low zephyrs, with pauses between
Lest they wanton too long with the leaf's silver sheen:
Some cooing dove murmurs in languorous elms
Of the dream and the dreamer in reverie's realms.

O willow-sweet maidens! What maidens are these,
Curd-white in the moonlight and honey-lipp'd breeze?
Old voices grow faint, from the summit they fall;
Your measures enchant me, I come at your call.
O faint grow the tocsin, the trumpet, the drum!
Enswathe me, enclose me; white maidens, I come!

Ah, stay me with lilies, sweet press of your faces,
The nearness and warmth of your mystic embraces,
Dissolving the sacred, inviolate state
Which I shared with the dwellers outside of your gate!
By a superincession fantastical, sweet,
I am merged in the maids of this shadow'd retreat;
They are I, I am they, neither many nor one,
As the light and the warmth from the fount of the sun.

140

The King Sleeps

Within the charm'd walls is a place of delight,
And a world from its windows shines strange to the sight,
In the pomp of deep night and high glory of day,
Where the long golden prospects stretch shining away.
With pennons and banners the pageants pass by,
And the crash of their music goes up to the sky:
The centre and shrine is this paradise fair,
And crown'd midst his maidens the monarch is there.
O wrapp'd all about by a ministry blest
And the intimate sense of the garden of rest,
How vague are the legends, the memories dim
Of the King's distant country surviving for him!
But a hint in the stars, but a voice in the wind,
An echo of canticles lost to the mind,
Welling up from the depths in the sea's organ voice,
Bear witness how far he has err'd in his choice.

In the garden are stairways and turrets and towers;
'Twas spring when he enter'd, and sweet were the flowers;
The maidens sang ballads, how blithe to the heart!
All bells rang the nuptials of Nature and Art;
And the world to the walls in high carnival came,
Bright eyes full of rapture, bright faces aflame.
But what of that moaning when music is still'd—
That ache in the pause which no pageant has fill'd?

The garden has hill-tops, the stars live above;
It is summertide now and the earth is all love;
Those maids in full chorus sing jubilant odes;
A glory abides in the vistas and roads.
O high the emprizes and high the renown,
But the King hath his maidens, the King hath his crown
Now, what of the whispers which hint in his sleep?
Do hearts never sorrow? Do eyes never weep?

141

The garden has sycamores stately and old;
O the time is rich autumn; these leaves are all gold,
Round maids in the moonlight, high-seeming and soft;
But a mist looking mournful envelopes them oft:
With a voice full of loss falls the wave on the strand;
Lone horsemen ride hurriedly far through the land;
Cold sleet against windows beats heavy and drives
On the overblown blooms and the bees' ravish'd hives.
All voice in that garden dies down in a dirge,
And the King hath his sorrow to crown him and scourge.
Far, far through the windows his vision is strain'd;
The young have grown old, and the old have not gain'd
Save in sense of illusion and measureless loss;
So the weary wayfarer goes dragging his cross
O'er the stones of the road to the hills out of reach,
Where storms utter faintly their ominous speech.
'Mid the ghosts of the maidens, in vain let him roam,
And remember at last how he strayed from his home!

Deep frost in the garden, the maidens are dead;
The King is a-cold, with the snows on his head;
Through the rime on the windows forth-looking sees he
The dearth and the dark when the glory should be.
Where now are the stars and the altitude keen,
All the music of old in the shining demesne,
With fellowships lofty, reserved to adorn
That secret pageant and state inborn?
The heart cannot dream it, though hearts may yearn,
Nor a way of attainment the eye discern;
But the King in his garden, of all bereft,
Knows that which was priceless for this was left—
For a paradise fated with time to end,
The Place of that Vision whence Kings descend.
So over the desolate, lonely road
Dim thoughts strain forth from his waste abode,
And hope for a herald with tidings sent
From the land withdrawn of the soul's content;

142

For a beacon speaking the darkness through
Of the light beyond and the further blue;
Past all sea-cries, for a distant tone
From the royal realm which was once his own.

The King's Going Forth

When will they come to him? Come they now?
Falls there a gleam on his clouded brow?
The wasting garden is moist and wan;
Far has the King of the garden gone!
Whither he travels and what may chance—
Whether restored from the lifelong trance,
Whether to tarry in exile far
Where other illusive gardens are—
Who shall acquaint us? He that knows
The one true place for a King's repose,
And, long though he travel the outward track,
That the King came forth and the King goes back.

CLAVIS ABSCONDITORUM

Therefore, perchance, at a time assign'd
Some key to the mystery Kings may find,
Why maidens five in a garden dwell
And Kings delude by their potent spell.
Peace on the King through his ways attend;
All things lead him to reach his end;
Stars be his pathway and suns his track,
For the King comes forth and the King goes back!

Epilogue

Ballad of maidens white to see,
All are spelling thy mystery;
Faint is the music and low the tone:
Lead us still, lead us to reach our own!

143

THE BLESSED LIFE OF SORCERY

ARGUMENTUM MIRABILE

Voice and the Word proclaim, but the outward Voice may fail,
In song and psalter the numbers falter; yet a hint may redeem the tale:
Hear therefore why, from a losing quest,
In a place of spells I dream'd of rest,
And there had thought to remain—
But a lone star rose on the heart's repose,
And it drew me to quest again.

Proem

Short the distance and smooth the road,
Not too far from a man's abode—
Seek, you shall find it; far and nigh
Stretches the Land of Sorcery.

The Prose

Where never a sense of the world beyond
On the soul bewitch'd intrudes,
But to soft spells only is sense in bond,
And, if illusion, delight deludes;
Where the heart does not yearn
Past what eyes discern,
Or far in some land remote—
Perchance unfriendly, at least unknown—
Picture the bliss and the vision alone;
Here let me anchor a stranded boat,

144

And taste the joy of the heart and eye
In the Blessed Life of Sorcery.

I have voyaged far and my sails are rent;
The mast is splinter'd; the rudder is bent.
I have been where billows their might expend
On pitiless walls at the known world's end,
But turret or window or hand extended
Found I none when the quest was ended,
While an icy blast o'er the pathless track
Seized me and toss'd me, and drove me back.

Here the air is heavy with spells;
From a sky overflowing the soft charm spills;
A loving litany breathes round wavering hills
And faintly chimes in the bosks from floral bells,
Or sighs in a veil on the surface of tarns and wells.
Here too the sheeted hyacinth meadows
Suspire and yearn,
Melt in the purple splendour, flicker and burn,
Through vistas of trees prolong'd and the musk-dark shadows
Of haunted dells.

Far off the glister of shining surf looks white;
How far, how soften'd comes the roll of the open sea!
And the long, low-breathing wind is hush'd as a wind may be.
The amber light of the afternoon is caught
And hidden in thickets and traps which mazy leaves have wrought,
Or talismanic figures of flowers that none can name—
But the nameless mystic people:
It moves in tongues of fire on vane and steeple,
On crumbling towers in pageants of auburn flame.

145

Hark a little and hark, for close at hand
Is one light voice you can hear and understand
In the plash and purl of the brook!
Otherwise, over the open road, through leafy covert or lawn,
The silent wain by a silent team with its harvest-load is drawn,
Though the road may rise or fall;
And only shadow'd figures slip past through the ravish'd land,
For ever wearing the dreamful elfin look
And ever the wondering guise of him who has heard the faërie call.

But yet, and now, and surely a theme uplifted,
With subtle, mastering melody suddenly fills the air;
From the midst of a secret centre, suddenly rifted,
The penetrant vibrant music pulses everywhere;
Through every leaf and blade of grass is sent,
As over the strings of its instrument—
Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping. The earth, with its volume stored,
Is a quivering sounding-board,
And the sea, with melodious roar,
For ever and ever responds on the long, pulsating shore.

The faces of women are faces of strange enchanted flowers,
Giving forth fragrance of incense and sounds of flutes on the deep,
In the sweetest, stillest, and gravest charm of the tardy hours;
And the children are blossoms in bud, which smile in the light, and sleep.
White lilies, pallid and pure, in a shimmering cloud of pearls,
Are the choric bands of the girls;

146

There are royal, ruddy roses of eager and splendid boys,
Heavy, yet lissom of limb, tan-faced, full of glories and joys.
Their moist lips full and intense,
Well over with rippling speech;
Yet a strange transfusion of sex and form and sense
Swims undeveloped in each;
And all the men in the land, if men be a part of the scheme,
Walk through the haunted places dissolved in vision and dream.

O holy, holy, holy, wild-sweet to the ear and eye,
Is the Blessed Life and the Haunted Life in the Land of Sorcery!

Will I not dwell in these ways for evermore?
Breathe harps and all ye strings in a world of strings,
With every voice in a world of voice and choir.
Breathe over sea and shore
Lowly and faintly and fading far away,
With a sudden tremor and hint of all unspeakable things,
As of dusk in the heart of the fire;
Lowly and faintly and fading far away,
Over the senses breathe till the senses swim;
Chant in the dells and dingles, among the groups so dim,
Standing at footpath ends—anthem, litany, hymn
Of the world's delight, from the pleasant rite
In the missal of Faërie!

The anthems swell and never a chord is lost,
The light of the Vision floats for ever around,
And a perfect peace of the heart, by an anxious thought uncross'd
Of the life in life, in this Blessed Life is found,
All under the purple sky,
Which swoons and falls in a mist—
Of opal and amethyst—
On fields and meadows and hills in the Land of Sorcery.

147

Envoy

At evening the light of a lone star fell through the lilac gloaming and gloom,
But a voice fell with it, meseem'd, in the midst of that choric spell, on the sorcery craft and bloom,
And, stilling the pulse of a thousand strings,
Said: Sails may fail thee, but wings—take wings!
Then suddenly out of the land withdrew
The savour, the music, the scent, the hue;
A curtain of darkness droop'd from the sky
On the Blessed Life of Sorcery.
That star in the distance sings and sings;
I have burn'd my ships, but I come with wings;
O'er the wall at the world's end, eyes of pity
Shine on the quest for the Mystic City.

HOW ONE OFFERED INCENSE

Just where the forest thins towards its edge,
On the western side
Is a clearing wide,
Or a glade, if you will,
And beyond the copse is a quickset hedge,
But this is the brow of the hill.
Over the hillside climbs the wheat;
In the August sun—like a golden tide—
It washes over the whole hillside,
Except for a narrow and tortuous track
Left for the passage of hardy feet.
Far down a little bridge looks black,
Spanning a stream which chimes and tinkles,
Leaps in the sunlight, sparkles and twinkles,
Rolls its smooth white pebbles, and sprinkles
Crisp green turf upon either hand.
Further again is the rising land,

148

This time with bearded barley and rye
Draped in the sunlight gorgeously;
But climb you over that further slope,
For a splendid stretch of the sky's blue cope
Bends to the West, and the breeze comes thence,
Over the low plain, keen and intense—
Rife with rumour of riot and rout—
Salted and strong from the sea far out.

To watch the sunset smoulder and burn
Over the surf-line, churn'd and creamy;
To see the mists on the plain assemble,
The dotted lamps of the inns dissemble
Their fullest light
Till it's really night;
To see the sky turn mauve and dreamy
And so many stars in the dark a-tremble;
To hear the anthem roll of the main
And the strong response of a seawind's strain—
Take your stand on the further height;
But for real magic 'twixt eve and night,
And a speculation strange and deep
From the inmost heart of the house of sleep,
At a fitting hour the hills forsake
For the edge of the woodland cover and brake.
Over the clearing, high and far,
You shall see only a single star;
Trees, in the dubious light convoked,
Stand, like mystæ muffled and cloak'd;
And lone in the midst of the lonely glade
To the cubical stone which no hand has made,
Shalt thou in the border twilight bring—
If thou hast the gift of soul to bear
A glimpse of the secrets of earth and air—
As an outward sign of the heart's desire,
Thy little parcel of sacred fire
And an incense-pot for an offering.

149

May he who has offer'd his incense tell
Of something which follows this kind of spell?
Say that the smoke will rise and spread,
Making a nimbus round one's head,
While glade and bush through the vaporous mist
Take shapes uncertain, which writhe and twist.
The sky looks marshlike, the star is dim,
And the air, which haply is moist and damp,
Seems to cling close, or just to swim;
The coal glows dull like a dying lamp,
And the moss-grown altar-stone, unbidden
Passing into the cloud, is hidden.
A change comes over the face of things,
And twixt the sense of a soul alone
And the subtle hint of invisible wings,
Tense expectation thrills and swings;
Till suddenly welling and surging round,
Down from the welkin and up from the ground,
From common motion and sight and sound
Isolated and terribly free,
The sense of a thing which is all unknown
Shapes in a moment and pierces thee.

Scatter the coals, for the rite is done;
Go to the hillside—one by one
Number the stones on the downward way;
Note how the wheat-ears bend and sway;
Get with haste to the village and choose
The tavern which most the yokels use;
Or hang on the bridge till one comes near
With a light step and a listening ear.
You have touch'd as close as one rite may reach
To that which lies undeclared behind
The things of Nature and things of mind—
Out of vision, exceeding speech—
And it isn't intended that men should get
A fuller glimpse of the secret yet.

150

Meanwhile it shews you that this life's scheme
Has more of omen and sign and dream
Than enters into the hearts of those
Who cannot the inner eyes unclose;
And that after all the life of man
Is shaped on a sacramental plan;
That all the light which he gets is clouded
Because of the manifold veils between;
The truth which he seeks to clasp is shrouded
And thus the beauty he longs for seen.
Yet truth and beauty and light exist,
And the sign is bright and the umbrage mist.
The border twilight melts at times,
And through the twilight or over the verge
Gleams from beyond do at times emerge—
Meaning of sorrow and sense of song,
The second import of runes and rhymes,
The seed of right at the core of wrong,
And in many legends and mystic tales
A rumour of what is behind the veils.

Nota Bene—the heart's desire
Is surely good as a charcoal fire,
And the heart, I think that we all may own,
Is as much an altar as woodland stone;
Wherefore the incense cloud may well
Be aspiration's transforming spell,
And for shades and forests and woodland dew,
With the lone star's lustre sifting through,
And all other things that I've been telling,
Choose any corner in your own dwelling.

151

A DOOR FOR WHITE DOVES

I sing not now of a thought from sight
In a word evasive hidden,
Of signs which stand for a sense unseen—
The little signs and the worlds they mean—
But an arch so old and a sward so green,
And the sudden flight in a tawny light
Of doves through that arch unbidden.

Science of motion, wings of white,
Gay, so gay, in the beams so bright,
In the warm rich stream of the amber beam—
Gleam, dream, glory and gleam!
The honey-bee hums in the hawthorn hedge,
The wild rose slumbers on plinth and ledge,
And over the wide world's sapphire edge
The rich ripe corn of the world is roll'd,
As rocks in its laver the burning gold.
The whirr of the wings of the doves goes by,
And a singing bird hangs in the flame of the sky;
Hot is the scent of the wheat and dry;
And sinking slowly and circling down
A petal falls from the rose's crown;
Soft on the soft sward falls and reposes,
As a gentle breath stirs the swooning roses.
But the doves come forth and the doves go in;
Here in a low flight circle and spin
Over and under the arch and out,
And out and over the arch and in,
Wheel and circle and plunge about.
Sweet and warm is the air they stir,
And pleasant the chirp of the grasshopper;
Motion, melody, scent are kin,
And the doves come forth and the doves go in.

152

The second sense on a day like this,
Meseems, a moment the mind may miss,
Midst incense, music and lights content
With the outward grace of the sacrament.
Therefore for once of mere doves in flight
The rhymes shall end as the rhymes begin;
Of the full rich light upon wings so white,
As the doves come forth and the doves go in.

ENVOY

Why hint so deeply, O mind within,
Of the going forth and the coming in
Of doves through an arch unbidden?
Do I not know that the whence and where
Of the life of man may be symboll'd there?
But in light so bright and on sward so fair
O let what is hidden be hidden!

THE PLACE OF THY GLORY

I shaped within my thought all goodly aims,
Too grandly built to crumble or incline;
The soul baptizing gave them holy names:
They flourish'd, they were mine.

At first, from man's pursuits my schemes I took
And glorified the world for glory's praise;
In camps and courts and colleges I shook,
With sounding feet, all ways.

But night and silence fall on every quest,
And on ambition's peak I paused and heard
A voice unbidden utter in my breast
One vapid, vacant word

153

Gold rose and red rose, sun-down glory and all
The tinctured flame, and the trump of fame; but the rose and the star shall fall!

Perchance, I cried, a refuge for the heart
Is found in beauty! And my soul, in her
All life transforming, by the hand of art,
Shall grace on life confer.

So I became an artist, and forth brought
Strange life, begotten but not made, to fill
The world with beauty; and the canvas taught
Beauty, and teaches still.

Rich wert thou, world, in that imperial time,
By art transfigured and that art mine own;
But far withdrawn I found one frozen clime
Within me, bleak and lone.

Soul bless'd is soul express'd; colour, melody, verse!
High God was lonely when He lived only: thereof is the universe!

Dirge-laden winds along the waters sweep;
E'en storms are chanted; when the light flows back
Light leaps the carol zephyr, and the deep
Follows a flute-note's track.

So up creation's scale the seeker takes
His search, and music's rapture fills the world;
But discord inly finds a thousand snakes
In those sweet numbers curl'd.

Bowl of ill, slowly fill; acrid cup be fill'd!
A vacant glance in a tongueless trance! And the empty soul is still'd!

154

O there are towers which ghosts will not frequent,
And marshes where the bittern will not cry,
And seas accursed where never tide is sent,
And wastes which know not sky!

But if to utter brings at least relief,
And if relief means refuge—space for work,
Free breath—what wonder in the word of grief
The word of grace should lurk?

So in the revolutions of the soul
Was I reborn a poet, and I wed
The wondrous meaning to the metre's roll,
And life interpreted!

Then all the outward life of man and beast,
Transmuting, turn'd to something “rich and strange”;
Till a new Eos rose in a new East,
O'er earth of broader range.

The Blessed Vision at the gates abode;
The pageant pass'd in every leafy lane;
The Quest was heard upon the open road;
Strange galleons swept the main.

I look'd within, but there no haunted room
Where ghostly presences sit throned and veil'd—
An empty place which never in the gloom
One form divine exhaled.

Cross comes, loss comes: thus is the hope destroy'd;
The harp of gold is a symbol cold, if the soul be vain and void.

Thereat I sought, because of fell distress,
A higher ministry; the altar blazed
A thousand lights pontifical; to bless,
The Saving Host I raised.

155

O never priest with consecrating word
Lord Christ set thus before adoring sight:
Of sacramental wonders, seen and heard,
Went forth the tale of might.

All men saw angels tarrying in the street,
The rush of white wings over all the land;
And where the wicked city's pulses beat
The Kingdom was at hand.

But as from lonely fortress, high-erect,
Commanding wastes unmeasured, lone and grey,
And acrid further waters scarcely fleck'd
With cruel points of spray;

I saw the lone soul's Kingdom stretch within,
Where sat the soul in solitary state—
But dead and pass'd beyond the reach of sin,
Or chrism to consecrate.

Dark soul, hark! Toll, bells of the dead without;
So let it fade, all vain parade: wrap the dark pall about!

I made myself a King in my despair:
There fell a glamour upon earth and sea,
While starry banners blazon'd all the air,
And men said: it is He!

The Sabbath splendour of the Prince of Peace
Fell on deliver'd nations bending low;
All Nature chanted for her heart's release
Grand Antiphons in O.

Great state and golden age and glorious dower:
No King of Kings had ever reign'd till then;
Yet I alone, in that tremendous hour,
A mendicant of men!

156

Quail not, fail not, Soul, in thy rayless room!
Fair when they rise are the shapes and eyes, as the faces pass in the gloom!

Come forth, thou giver, of all gifts bereft,
Who healest all save thine own dread disease:
No further path of ministry is left;
Spare then thy services!

Much didst thou manifest; be now withdrawn;
Much didst thou brighten; now thyself inweave!
Still in thine absence there is scarlet dawn,
Nor lustres fail at eve.

Open, ye gates, and open, portals, wide,
Wild land of Faërie! Let the dreamer through!
Green world and sea-world, past all shore and tide—
Sky-world, beyond the blue!

So I became a prince in Faërie Land;
Mine the weird rite and mine the potent spell,
Stars in my crown and lilies in my hand,
And feet on asphodel.

I was the Vision and the Eye that sees,
The blazon'd symbol and its inmost drift,
The Quest, the Seeker and the Bourne of these,
The Giver and the Gift.

But when I look'd within, the soul was blind,
The pageant tattered and the place unkempt—
Vague quests ill follow'd, by no path defined,
Gifts with no grace to tempt.

Sink not, think not—all must be night and storm;
To sweeter motion subsides the ocean, and flowers into light and form.

157

So thence I pass'd, outside all elfin reach,
To snatch prerogatives and powers which yield,
Far past the compass of theurgic speech,
Worlds of all dread conceal'd.

I saw the gods which Julian saw of eld,
And after others which we name not now
Except with incense-worship, and beheld
Light on the Father's brow.

Ah, woe is me! To see God's shining face
O'er Christ's white throne bend down, yet not to die!
And the great masters in the Holy Place—
How dead within was I!

But humbly now, to this dim world restored,
By temple doors I stand, a man reprieved;
The broken bread, which kindly hands accord,
With bended head received.

God bless the givers and the gifts make blest,
For by this sacrament withheld before,
Deliver'd hardly from a life's unrest,
My soul is dead no more.

A PORTION OF MY INHERITANCE

One day agone, one weariful,
One day of faded light,
Of shade that chill'd but could not cool,
Of blister'd bloom and blight!
May-day, fay-day, all the world was bright
Till they lured my lady fond—
Esclairmonde—
By an elfin rite.

158

One night agone; the stars have shed
All light in tears; if that be dew,
'Tis meet, since she bewray'd is fled,
That light of verdure follow too!
A venom in the damp distils;
The long, enchanted lawn exhales
An acrid odour; hemlock fills
The wingless air; it dulls and stills
The busy murmur of the vales,
The quicken'd sense which haunts the hills;
And in the mystic thicket kills
With beldam fumes the nightingales.

Avé, Avé! Voices come and go;
Baneful, painful, breathing far and low—
“Esclairmonde”—
Throbbing from the bourne beyond,
Liturgic voices slow.

One moon agone; the moon has ceased
Her hauntings of the starry maze;
There is no light from West to East;
The sun is dead, the skies are haze.
Softness and marsh-warmth and decay
Confuse the swimming seasons here,
Till all is fen from May to May
And deeper haze when June is near.
May-day, fay-day, all the spring turn'd sere
When they brought to Esclairmonde
Smoking censers from beyond.
The dark heavy incense swells;
All the dying dales and dells
Echo still with tinkling bells,
Chimes and spells
Rung from elfin thuribles.

159

One year agone; and Nature bleeds
The sap of life from every vein;
The mould is over-rich; the seeds
Have rotted; an unwholesome stain
Makes lepers of the strongest weeds;
The hemlock only blooms again,
And sickly, fungous growths possess
The monstrous boles of pining trees;
The nightshade at the air's caress
Feeds with more poison these.

Lightly, brightly, all amidst the vapours light,
Underneath soft eyes and fond—
Esclairmonde!—
Elfin vestments white.

Pomp of elfin, pomp of fay,
Blazon'd banners' soothing sway,
Draw thy dreaming soul away—
Through thine eyes enthrall'd—so vow
Gossips of the vacant brow.
I opine, since loss of mine
Better makes the heart divine,
That three maidens, Esclairmonde,
Coming from the bourne beyond,
In the dusk and ghostly mean
Eventide and night between—
Thy sweet face was peering forth
From the window facing North,
The embayëd window North—
Wailing, wailing, drew thee forth.
And although no human hand
Wipes the tears from Faërie Land;
And though never human art
Heals the broken elfin heart;
And no words that man can spell
Shall redeem the tax to hell,

160

They have lured thee, Esclairmonde,
Far beyond;
Choir and incense gone before
And the banners evermore
Dripping with the dreary mist.
They who draw thee know not why;
They are lonely, they persist;
When their spells possess the eye
Seldom human wills resist.

Follow fast and follow fond!
They shall lead thee, Esclairmonde;
And I seek the elfin track
Not to bear thy semblance back,
Since the ghost-world, woe is me,
Touching, makes a wraith of thee!
But to join thy useless quest
And to share thy long unrest—
Esclairmonde, O Esclairmonde!
Homeless, haunted, pass'd beyond,
Wraiths are in the world alone
Where thy steps no more are known.

Thus, a mournful ghost, I take
Woe of mine from bower to brake,
From brake to sodden mead, and see,
Evermore escaping me,
Choir and incense gone before
And the banners evermore,
With fantastic plunge and twist,
Looming strangely in the mist,
As thy pale ghost by maidens three
Evermore removes from me.
Passing every house of rest,
Pass'd love's gateway of the blest,

161

And far into dim lands beyond
The march of muffled music steals;
The incense vista curls and reels;
The low chant dieth far beyond;
Far die the ghostly censer bells,
Confused amid a world of spells.
A ghost behind, a ghost before,
Falls woe on both for evermore,
O Esclairmonde! O Esclairmonde!

LA VIE INTIME

THE FIRST SCROLL

A BOW OF PROMISE

O bright between the South and West
That wonder fled before!
So flies, O heart, thy hope of rest
In front for evermore!

Far on the gleam of gorgeous dyes
I spurr'd my russet steed;
The woof disclosed a thousand eyes—
Now grope I, dark in need.

He rode upon a palfrey white,
More white than milk was he;
And his white garments gave strange light
Of golden broidery.

Strange rhymes from witch-lips fill'd the glade
And ballad-music stirr'd;
Rain spangles, hung from leaf and blade,
Shook bells at every word.

162

So evermore the rainbow drew,
Betwixt the South and West,
Its shifting pageant mutely through
That strange green world unblest.

O follow fast! O follow far!
O follow fleet! he cried:
Betwixt the sunset and the star
I see the ways divide;

But one shall lead to convent walls,
While one leads on to mine:
The casements of my joyous halls
Beyond the rainbow shine.

O heed not thou the key of gold—
Shall slip into the grass;
And when white hands a wine-cup hold
Set close thy mouth and pass.

For this is the key of the convent door,
And that which the cup conceals,
To him who crosses the convent floor,
Another life reveals.

Farewell all knightly life of earth,
With the gold key in thy hand!
Magic measures, music, mirth,
Quests and gestes of Faërie Land!

Farewell the wassail and the bowl,
When the gold cup is drain'd!
To quench the thirst it brings the soul
Hath never man attain'd.

From out the convent windows gaze
The cloister'd eyes within,
And watch the steep upwinding ways
Which lead from a world of sin;

163

From the world of sin and joy they lead,
By a fasting waste without;
Through ways of weed, from the green sweet mead,
To the frozen height and drought.

And he that reaches the peaks of ice
Sees over the void untrod
How glister the gates of Paradise
When shut at the word of God.

But the pleasant arch of the rainbow bends,
And its sheen is fair in the spring-tide sky,
With the earth's green turf at one of its ends;
At the other is Faërie.

Where the ways divide in the saffron light
A flame in the West leap'd red,
And the Key from the rainbow—burnish'd bright—
Slipp'd out, as the rainbow fled.

In a music-waft the air gave up,
From God's most holy place,
A priestly youth with a golden cup,
White alb and shining face.

The witch-boy over his palfrey lean'd;
He drew my bridle round;
The witch-boy croon'd and the witch-boy keen'd:
We sprang into faërie ground.

With the sudden shot of a shaft, the bow
Sprang over and spilt its dyes,
And a sex-change swift, with the gaudy flow,
Forth leap'd in his eager eyes.

Ye wist I knew what the lays foretell;
My birth-cross saved me there;
But not from the lips of her evil spell
Nor the twist of her snake-limbs fair.

164

O the light, light play of the naked fire,
On face and limbs transform'd,
In the glowing dawn of a red desire,
As the pulse-beats swelter'd and swarm'd.

At the rainbow's end to a witch-maid wed,
In place of a maid of man,
The nameless rites of an elfin bed
In the maze-built halls began.

THE SECOND SCROLL

A VOICE IN THE HEIGHT

If only the blood of the race of man
In the veins of the mother that bore me ran,
And only the soul of the open sea
Dwelt in my father, a rover free,
Then something came from a secret place
And look'd me, a young child, in the face,
Till all the natural world became
A pageant unstable as smoke and flame.
Sunsets faded and stars went out,
But, pressing me closer round and about
Than the common modes by which man is fenced,
Another order and rite commenced.
In quiet garden and market town
Strange processions went up and down;
In dusky corners and rooms secluded
Warm arms encircled and lips intruded;
Stealthy tortuous corridors stirr'd
With the whisper of an unearthly word.
In the very bed where my mother placed me
Strange, trembling creatures cried and embraced me.

165

There was no river so high, so clear,
But a face not mine would there appear;
Or if in summer I plunged therein
Something kiss'd me which seem'd like sin;
And hands which never could lift to bless me
Up through the cool depths came to caress me.
Over the edge of the world astray,
How swift I pass'd from the world away
To see those sights of glory and joy,
Alike forbidden to man or boy,
In a place so pale with an eye so dim,
Had never the fairies come to him.
Yet the light had something of autumn's shine,
And the blush of the leaf in its last decline,
But the sights if seen by an angel's eyes
Had lost him for æons his native skies.

Why was I taken from Nature's arms,
And taught so early on secret charms
To nourish the innocent heart's desire?
To fan the flame of a fervent fire
Under the eyes, at the lips of those
Whose kisses are more than Nature knows,
Whose arts far down in the scale of things
Are sweets full of poison and mortal stings?

Ah, but a melody faint at times
Drown'd for a little those drowsy rhymes
Which the nameless loves of that world unknown
Over the nuptial bowers intone,
Where limbs which have never by man been seen
Poppies and wormwood slipp'd between!
O eyes unsated and grey with want!
O hearts inhuman, of fire the font!
O shameless bodies and eager faces,
With human sex to your scarlet graces

166

E'en in the secret of bliss denied!
Who was the bridegroom and who the bride?
He who hath seen your arms extended
Shall know of a hunger and need unended.

Gentle melody, tones rejoicing,
Worlds beyond worlds and their secrets voicing,
O but in Faërie I heard the call—
Heard and hearken'd, and over all—
Heart and body and mind and eye—
Fell the great longing to reach your cry!
Not under Nature's rule returning,
Forth I went and carried my yearning,
For he that strays from her realm in vain
May seek therein to return again;
But somehow, some time the place to reach
Where dwelt that singer of mystic speech,
Chanting clearly—how far, how high—
So blythe, so sacred a litany!
O if the natural world to nought
Brings what the heart and the eyes have sought,
That have look'd on things to our eyes forbidden,
Surely a place of peace is hidden!
Surely that mystic voice which sings
Of the Sacred City and its secret things,
Not in vain on the mountains far,
Nor taken vainly from star to star,
Forth from the great delusion leading,
Carries the heart with a hope exceeding,
Where, in the light of all light descried,
One shall be bridegroom and one the bride!

167

THE THIRD SCROLL

THE EXPENDED WAYS

Ah! whither now shall one bewray'd,
Through listless paths and wrack
Of longing, dull'd but not allay'd,
Descry the true way back?

The mists about me crawl and creep,
Warm folds, which swathe and wind,
The swooning soul in languor steep,
And every nerve unbind.

Landscape and seascape far and near
Are voiceless, void and grey;
Thought sets as moon, if moon were here,
Where two eves make one day.

This pallid screen, which hangs between
All-kindling heaven and earth,
Can bring no purpose fair and clean—
In sodden light—to birth.

O the worn way and the lorn way,
And the way that never ends,
Where the light is as the night is,
But never night descends!

The shapes of all things form and fade,
With outlines vague and strange;
While the pace is slow for the pulse is stay'd,
Where nothing is swift but change;

168

And the male rose blooms like the maiden rose
And the maid like the man appears:
Is it night or noon in the sky? God knows—
But the dark mist flows with tears!

Body and ghost are spectres pale,
Shadow and substance fuse in one,
The back-view melts and the prospects fail—
Who knoweth of star or sun?

Mind cannot think, nor sad heart dream,
Maim'd by the dreary spell,
Whence none can issue, by road or stream:
Take the woodland, try the dell;

Try the ghostly, moaning mere,
Take the sand-strewn ways of weed—
Who shall sail and who shall steer?
Who shall spur the flagging steed?

O for a bolt from heaven to fall,
For a rain to follow fast!
Waste and ravage of storm, or all
The strength of a clarion blast!

I yearn for the rainbow's farther side!
I dream of the golden key!
The angel-priest where the ways divide
And the Cup of the Mystery!

The convent gate and the heights untrod
In a silent world of ice!
I ask but to gaze on the hand of God
As it shuts me from Paradise.

169

THE FOURTH SCROLL

RESTORED TO LIGHT

A faint light shining for a space;
A breath of wind upon the face;
A stirring in the mist; a sigh;
A sense of distance, height and sky;
A little wave of melody!
O but how beautiful to see
The light leaf dance upon the tree,
The bloom upon a hedgerow stirr'd
By transport of a singing bird,
And—after darkness and eclipse—
The sun upon the sails of ships,
All up and down the dancing sea!
O but how beautiful to hear
A little whisper in the ear,
A smaller voice than note of bird,
A still small voice, a mighty word,
A whisper in the heart to say
That God is not so far away!
And when the torpid soul is stirr'd,
The voices of all the worlds are heard,
And all the world's lights come and kiss
The sleeping soul to waking bliss,
While joy of new-found life and hours
Bursts everywhere into dews and flowers—
Dews and flowers and fragrance sweet,
In the month of May, with her light feet;
The promise of fuller scent and tune
Under the florid lips of June;
And the gorgeous glory in the eye,
All among roses, of rich July;

170

The blessed vision which crowns the year,
When August apples and corn appear.
Out of darkness and sorcery,
Out of the spell and the mystery,
As a mother with accents mild,
Nature has call'd back her lost child
From the other side of the world so far.
She has taken him for a little while
Into the refuge of her smile,
Until from one of her far-off heights—
Peak that glisters or gleaming star—
Some hand shall kindle the greater lights,
Shall point to a pathway leading straight,
As it might seem, to the convent gate,
And into a different world of spell,
As it might be, led by a convent bell—
Gently over the hill-tops ringing.
From the star and over the peak,
And over the peak and beyond the star,
Comes voice, or chorus, or cosmos singing
Of one thing needful which, time out of mind,
All worlds over, the nations seek,
And past all worlds shall the nations find.
By which also, restored to sight,
From the hells of sense and the spells of night,
Having my peace with Nature made,
And taking humbly, as best I may,
To the convent gate my pilgrim way;
If by a chance that key should slip
From another rainbow into a glade,
And the Mystic Cup be placed to my lip,
O what shall loosen one fervent grip,
And O where else be the thirst allay'd?
Or having the key of the convent door,
Will I not stand on that sacred floor,

171

And gaze with the cloister'd eyes within
On the paths which lead from my great sin
Up to the sacred peaks and light,
Holy and holy and holy height?

But I know that over the void untrod
A way shall be found for the soul with wings,
When the last true path to the summit brings,
And far though they shine from the peaks of ice,
Shall glister the gates of Paradise,
Unbarr'd by the hand of God!

THE KING'S RENDERING

A TRANSCRIPT

'Twas when the great Telesma of the sun
With ardent flame inform'd the torrid zone,
And summer's heavy heat possess'd the air
With spells successively of rapture, great
Strange longing, ardour dim. A day of bland
And happy parable was 'blazon'd round
With symbols—matron Nature teeming, rich,
Full-lipp'd and yielding. In such tide I left
My house of dreams and forth I fared alone
Into the splendid sacramental world,
Where, all the sacramental veils dissolved,
Shone midst the light flamboyant and flaming heat
The Corpus Christi feast of earth and sea.

A night of ecstasy, so deep, so full,
So holy follow'd—as of mystic death,
When lips of spirit upon spirit lips
Have kiss'd and tasted rapture, unity.
Now, other morn has broken; the hush'd night

172

Hath surely pass'd; without that house of dreams—
Midmost within the city—I pause, and know
What wonder and high truth of all the world
Stands at the doors and knocks. All dream is done!
He then shall hear who will—a rich device—
The quest and pageant of the coming King!

All in the little tower that crowns the Church,
Hear ye the pleasant bells which stir in sleep
With muffled cadences and whisper'd chimes! . .
Files past the fair procession! Those twin yews,
The two proud peacocks of the legend, shaped
Uncouthly, feeling, through their long drear spell,
That pride and vanity are over, stir
All tremulous, as if with sudden wind.

For in the night we rode to save the town.
And overtaking ever and anon
Belated market-waggons, saw, aroused
And wonderstruck, how yokels heavy-eyed
Marked—scared in vision—that goodly train go by,
With the great Graal's glad light encompassing;
Fair horses plunging, steaming in the light;
Vast banners streaming, swirling, taken past
By Gilead winds; the King of all the world—
So in my heart I hail'd my heart's dear lord—
Rex quondam ille et futurus rex—
Riding his great white horse with reverend mien
Behind the holy vessel, set about
With sweetness and with savour. Next in place,
Of mien erect but still an ancient man,
The King's sword-bearer came; Excalibur
Lay keen in sheath, the sharp quick light thereof,
Like unto thirty torches, the red gold
Inscription round it, ray'd on every side,

173

And all the scabbard's wealth of jewell'd length
And haft transfigured.

Past the roadside stream,
Where crooked willows trembled, crouch'd and croon'd;
The windy rookery swaying in the old
Elm-tops; the narrow bridge—a shallow pool
Below it shining faintly; and across
The little remnant of the open heath
Dotted with pointed tents all white and ghostly;
Past old decaying houses shrouded deeply
In ivy thicker than the walls which bore it;
Past windows dim, with dainty blinds drawn close
In little villas; and past the creaking sign
Whereby the great roads enter from the West
An abject village street; past shutter'd shops
Of that mute place; still eastward, where the bridge
Crosses the road; and as we drew to this
A train of waggons, steaming slowly, shew'd
Forth-hanging guards and drivers eager-eyed,
Awestruck and crying.

Thereat I fell to dream:
What wonder in the city of the King,
When the King came into his own: what joy
Among the common people, when the King
Stood manifest: what poets should come out
To meet him: with what lights should altars blaze:
What flowers be strewn: what bells and bells peal forth:
What merchants, councillors and princes haste
To proffer homage: and what peace in all:
What putting by of sorrow and of shame:
What goodness raised to sanctity: what sins
By pardon purified: what wounds made whole:
What sudden change in heart and hope of all.

174

Thereafter pass'd the pictures of the quest;
The inception's fever and high colouring
Kindled its fires within me, going out
From the great city through those long green lanes,
By a free way, far stretch'd into the West.
Came too the pain of doubt, the questioning,
The aching sense of loneness and of loss,
Faring through mournful marshes—where the mist
At sunset flamed with a dull ruddy light,
Which after ever in the moonlight turn'd
To rolling seas. Again, distraught, I heard,
Through smoke and smoulder of the sunset-time,
The plaint of plovers; heard the bitterns cry
Strangely, with breasts and wings incarnadined,
Flocking and flying towards the falling sun.
And further still, descending steep hillsides,
I saw below me the forest tree-tops sweep,
Bending and crashing before the risen wind,
Spelling out wild reverberant messages.

Through fields of bearded barley, fields of rye,
Through winding byways all among tall ripe wheat,
Still faring forward many a morning after;
Betwixt the teeming life of lush hedgerows,
The rich disorder'd growth of bank and ditch,
Right in the drowsy heat and harvest wealth—
Scented and songful—of early autumn sunshine;
By circling, gaudy moths, the birr and buzz
Of bees, dove-croonings, splendid heavy flight
Of armour'd dragon-flies; by lonely wells
Disused and the forgotten source of springs;
By open roads scored white on breezy hills
And white and brown through miles of lilting vales
And worlds embower'd of pool and meeting stream;
Past apple-orchards, russet, green and red;
So to the sea—the questing restless waste
Of the tumultuous ocean! How it cried

175

Loud in the moonlight terribly—how broke
Ever its long white line of angry surf,
Chafing beyond the bar, broke and reform'd,
Toss'd high, toss'd higher, where the beacon-lamps—
Set in tide-isolated light-house towers—
Seem'd to flash watchwords through the infinite!

But after, in the morning glory's pearl
Of shell, pale pink, convolvulus and rose—
Bell-like, far-echoing, caroll'd along the coast—
Sea voices taking shape, as soul's take flesh,
Scatter'd light music, breath'd between the songs
Sweet little words of prophecy, soft words
Of promise, high resounding words of hope.
Then all the landscapes and the seascapes merged
In world of dream, the hills abode in light
Down streaming from the gold-bright city above;
All visible realities assumed
A richer tincture, an uplifted type;
And in the human side of earthly things
A higher magic confess'd its mystery
Even in cottage homes and humble farms.

So swept the path of quest into a place
Of very sacrament and mystery.
Vested in samite strange ships glided down
Sea-ways, full-tided, swirling, glisterful;
The odour and the spicery of the world
Hung over all the shore; high mystic chants
Swept and re-echoed through the haunted air,
Telling of Aromat and the Holy Cup.
There fell the subtle hint of perilous quests
On turrets dimly seen between old trees,
On moated manors mouldering far away
From all frequented roads. Unlook'd for glades
Of strange encounter open'd out in bosks,

176

Where steaming summer draws rich humid scents
From yielding leaf-mould; in waste places rose
Old chapels, and the sieges set therein
Were less for worship than for vision's gifts;
The reverence of high feasting rang throughout
The sparged and censed extent of castle halls;
Pavilions rose on lawns by power of words;
White doves flew past with golden censers borne
In bills anointed, from their choric wings—
Spread wide—expanding measured melody;
Children in sacred vestments went before,
With sacred lights, far-shining priest-like men
From those far countries which are reached by none
That traverse sea or land.

In such a place
The path of quest and promise was closed about
With eager faces; on the faces fell
The white light shining from the Holy Graal.
I saw them—even I—a man unclean:
The faces shone of angels and of men;
The face of Galahad, of Perceval,
The face of Lancelot sanctified by woe
And seal'd by priesthood. More than all I saw
The fair uncover'd visage of the King,
The King's face in his splendour, as the King
Came out of Avalon, in the morning glory
Passing with royal train along the coast,
Whereon the light sea scatter'd foam and song.
Fair orchards ripen'd in the mellow sun;
The white road ran behind his horse's hoofs;
Over the bridges, over the hills, and all
Through fields of barley, miles of wheat and rye;
Out of the West, far forth into the East,
By secret paths for many and many a day
All reverend riding behind the Holy Graal,
Amidst all manner of sweetness and of savour.

177

And reaching now the lion-guarded gates
Of that old convent-house and school of saints
Which, past the river and a hundred meads,
Descries the dim horizon of the hills,
I saw the vision of a pallid nun,
With quivering aureole, watching on her knees
And praying. Then I knew the mourning queen
Had look'd again upon her master's face,
And all must come to pass as I was warn'd
Already in my quest. The glorious train
Swept by; there fell a hush among the stars,
A stir in streets, a spell upon the wind;
And whereabouts the silent highway flows
Beneath the rude arch of a formless bridge,
Some homeless urchin on the kerb asleep,
Lifting his bare head from his ragged knees,
Scream'd worship as an angel's broider'd hem—
The twelfth fair master in a scarlet cope
And white dalmatic—brush'd with sudden touch
His naked feet.

In that same hour a light
Began to kindle faintly in the East;
The eastern heaven dissolv'd its scatter'd stars
In many-hued solutions. For the morn
Was now at hand; the stir of human life
Must soon begin; whereat I felt my heart
Leap in my side, foreseeing those great things
Which every man should witness. As I rode
My palfrey humbly far behind the train,
The narrow street which skirts the water-side
In squalid slumber stirr'd; at early inns
And coffee-houses, waggoners look'd forth
From grimy windows; bargemen crowding doors
Stared as in dream, stone-turn'd for wonderment.
So pass'd the pageant; on the hush thereof
An awestruck sob ensued, a stir spread wide
Through all the ways, shouting of many voices,

178

Clatter of doors and casements. Over all
That shoeless urchin shriek'd, and beat the air
With yearning hands, fast following.

Below
The bridge, a whistle of some early steamer
Blew keenly in the thin keen morning air,
As first we enter'd on the smoother ways
And broader streets, where life awaited light
And light of life unlook'd for thus drew nigh.

Amidst dull echoes of a hundred feet
In the old capital of Middlesex,
Again the cloud enveloped us; again
We rode invisible; his own choice kept back
The blessed revelation of the King,
Because the Holy Graal must first be set
For worship on the minster's altar high,
Midmost within the city. Whatsoe'er
Wild rumours of some unknown mystery
Run like light fire from all the western side,
The great metropolis to light of day
Shall wake once more, on common toil intent,
Nor know what must betide it. . . . I alone,
Foreseeing all, steal hurriedly and close
My house of dreams; I cast the keys away,
And riding thence in haste to reach betimes
The minster shrine, hereby proclaim to all
The quest and pageant of the coming King.

HOW I ALSO SANG MASS

So therefore, when the palsied hours
Reach'd towards an end of all;
When petals from the scarlet flowers
Dropp'd through the empty hall;

179

And, betwixt a shriek and moan,
All over the floors of stone
Or the scented ivory floors,
The wind of the world outside
Took and scatter'd them wide
And far through the open doors;
When a shaft of the sunlight broke,
Like smouldering fire and smoke,
Through the painted windows—lifting high
Their forest of tangled tracery;
And over the dunes, through the brushwood maze,
The cries which echoed all day drew off afar,
Towards the holocaust fire of the sunset and the long drawn under-haze—
Forth I issued alone, and heard
The final note of the day's last fountain-hearted bird
Spring to the fountain-beam of the night's first star.

Thereat at length my heart sustain'd
The utter sense of loss,
And that first ghostly lawn I gain'd—
Like one who drags his cross.
Thereon—as over a mountain ledge—
At the South horizon's terminal edge,
Where the ragged road of that restless place
Suddenly seems to fall into space,
I saw how the pageant, rank by rank,
Paused on the brink, there gleam'd and sank.
So took they, 'twixt the day and the night,
My wonder forth on her palfrey white,
And the whole world's dissolving spell
Mutter'd and moan'd confused farewell.
Then life fell suddenly dead and cold,
While over the terrace and through the gate,
And far through the woodland and farther still, all over the open wold,

180

With a vacant heart and a voided will,
Forth I hurried; but still
Sang, on the crest of the coppice, that bird—which tarried so late—
To the early star far over the naked crest of the hill.

I will not dwell on this night's eclipse,
When all the world's woes came—
The secret want with shrouded lips,
The grief too deep for name.
They found a name to ease their grief,
They shew'd their wounds to win relief,
And then, confessing, look'd on mine,
Crying: No sorrow is like to thine,
For the Master of all in His great day
Shall scarcely wipe thy tears away.
One also from afar came down,
Who said: Twelve stars were in my Crown;
The lilies of all the world, besprent
Through bosks and valleys, made white my star of old.
Deep is my loss and far my lapse, but further is thy descent;
Yes, I know by thine eyes of doom
That I rise from the curse and gloom,
And the glory of morning blossoms, as lights in the heart unfold.

Another from the marshes rose,
With dripping cloak and hood—
Wolf-eyes that had not found repose
Through years, nor look'd on good;
With aspect of a man long dead,
Whom loathing earth refused a bed,
Empty and yet compell'd to be—
O weary of all the skies was he!
And from his neck—what load of pain!—
There hung a heavy and tarnish'd chain,

181

From the thirty pieces of silver wrought
By which Christs and Kings have been sold and bought.
For a little space he gazed, then cried,
Hands stretch'd, like one that is crucified:—
Woe and woe, but an end of woe—
With a hope at end, as a light in darkness born—
Because it is given to gaze at length on a face from every face distinguished here below
By mine own sorrow and loss.
Yet deeper is scored thy cross,
As the pit than the grave is deeper, O thou of all forlorn!

So therefore as the night of murk
Drew towards a morning chill;
As light began like a yeast to work—
Nameless, stealthy and still—
And a torpid shuddering life to stir,
It seem'd that the burden of Lucifer,
With the twelve stars dark in his crown,
And of Judas the chain'd fell down,
While those twain over the steep hill trod,
Like souls set free that return to God.
But forth abroad through the day's bright heart,
God's hand under, I moved apart;
And a Borgia poison as I went
Pass'd into every sacrament.
The vision went out in the eyes that see;
The star absinthos and wormwood, hissing, into all sweet waters fell;
The chrism destroy'd the dying man, as Nature the honey-bee;
And with heavy feet, as I fared,
I straiten'd the road and prepared
A path, meseems, for the world to take, going down to the gates of hell.

182

How on this middle deep and dark
Should light and joy be rain'd?
Ah, by what process hard, remark,
Redemption's height is gain'd!
Hence, over the marsh and over the sky
And the unclaim'd wastes, I testify
That the morning comes, howe'er delay'd,
Till the saddest feet through a glory wade,
While the aching head cannot fail to lift,
Eyes turn where the white cloud-splendours drift.
And when the eyes behold what gem
Is set in the great world's diadem,
There is no soul in the deep abyss
But shall remember crown and bliss.
Yea, the light behind is the light before,
O'erflowing the wreck and the ravage, suffusing the day's deep wells;
The light without is for ever and evermore
The sacro-saintly joy of all light within;
High over the cross and the loss the sun-clouds circle and spin;
And the bane from the soul uplifted its curse from the earth expels.

So therefore in those softer hours
Which soothe the close of all,
I stood as one midst lights and flowers
By an altar fair and tall;
And in priestly vestments even I
Intoned the mystical liturgy.
Yea, with unearthly and shining eyes,
I, even I, offer'd sacrifice,
And uttered the kingly and terrible terms
Which, veils assuming, the King confirms.
The painted windows lifted high
Their forest of tangled tracery;

183

And the heavy shafts of sunlight broke
Through the shifting denseness of incense-smoke;
When I—even I—with hands made clean
—As God in the past cried: “Light”—
Saw light flash forth at the mystic words, and Christ through His veils was seen.

By this do I testify
That the soul of itself can die,
Yet in death is He strong to save, since I have seen crown and height.

SUMMA TOTIUS MYSTERII

Now therefore concerning that wonder white
Over a world's edge drawn from sight—
This also surely is thine own loss,
And, because of the crown, like me
Thou must partake of the curse and cross
Till a mass shall be sung by thee.
But that which was taken is not confess'd
Betwixt introibo and missa est:
Say therefore, as man and his angels do,
Worlds over, refugium meum es tu;
Though, for myself, on that great day
I cried a Tu Autem, Domine.

VALETE

The heart of the woodland
Gives range to the rover,
Each broad tidal ocean
To ships that come over;
And some on the mountain,
And some in the hollow,
Are free, as it bids them,
Their fancy to follow.

184

But song, having bless'd them,
Must leave them unheeded,
Since, more than new accent,
The new theme is needed.
If woods could be greener
And seas might be broader,
More stars overwatch'd them
In luminous order;
If touch'd by the tincture
Transmuting existence
The height were exalted,
Transfigured the distance;
If wings should be granted,
Like doves, for swift flying,
And sight, as an eagle's
Sun-bathed, for descrying;
Still wings would droop downward,
The vision must falter,
And mists would all glory
Diminish or alter.

Ah, ye that go outward,
Where cold lie the snows on
The track up those mountains
'Tis death to repose on!
Ye too that go outward,
Where winds with their moaning—
In spume on the tost seas—
Your dirge are intoning;
All ye that go outward
Where dryads have hidden
Snake-fangs in the forests
For hunters unbidden;
Hath dream in the brightness,
When sense-veils grow thinner,
No vision's bright prospect
Conjured from the inner?

185

With mournful and mystic
Penumbra is shrouded
That threshold which opens
On splendours unclouded.
O ways unfrequented,
Eluding detection,
I found you, I enter'd,
One day of election!
And, lo! through what regions,
Because of her trances,
The spirit, unbonded
By vision, advances!

O beautiful outward!
O inward! Divine is
Your ray on the outward,
Now each of them mine is!
What secrets, what meanings,
Informing, uplighting!
This life's common story
Turns mystical writing;
All that which is beauty
A light is shed down on,
While thought is new vestured,
High song hath its crown on;
And all is romance, from
The green leaf's light flutter
To strong spirit music
Which tongue cannot utter.
And seen in the brightness
And heard in the glory,
By this book of vision
And magical story,
In strange ballad measures,
Some part have I striven
To give of those marvels
Which I have been given.