IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Knows that which was priceless for this was left, 



For a paradise fated with time to end, 



The place of the Vision whence Kings descend; 



And over the desolate, lonely road 



Dim eyes put forth from his waste abode, 



To watch for a herald with tidings sent 



From the land withdrawn of the soul's content, 



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. 



When will it come to him? Comes it 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 life-long 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. ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 

 (A Book of Mystery and Vision.} 



[206] 



