THE WORKS OF ALEISTER CROWLEY Vol. I, part 2 of 3 ASCII VERSION February 18, 1993 e.v. key entry by Bill Heidrick, T.G. of O.T.O. January 4, 1994 e.v. proofed and conformed to the "Essay Competition Copy" edition of 1905 e.v. by Bill Heidrick T.G. of O.T.O. File 2 of 3. Copyright (c) O.T.O. O.T.O. P.O.Box 430 Fairfax, CA 94978 USA (415) 454-5176 ---- Messages only. This work was originally published in two parallel columns. Where such columns are found in the original, they have been rendered as a single text with "A" or "B" added to the page number at the end of each column: A = end page left column. B = end page right column. On many pages a prefatory paragraph or a concluding group of sentences is full across the page. These instances are noted in curly brackets. Pages in the original are marked thus at the bottom: {page number} or {page number A} and {page number B}. Comments and descriptions are also set off by curly brackets {} Comments and notes not in the original are identified with the initials of the source: e.g. WEH note = Bill Heidrick note, etc. Descriptions of illustrations are not so identified, but are simply in curly brackets. Text Footnotes have been expanded at or near the point of citation within double angle brackets, e.g. <>. For poems, most longer footnotes are cited in the text to expanded form below the stanzas. LIMITED LICENSE Except for notations added to the history of modification, the text on this diskette down to the next row of asterisks must accompany all copies made of this file. In particular, this paragraph and the copyright notice are not to be deleted or changed on any copies or print-outs of this file. With these provisos, anyone may copy this file for personal use or research. Copies may be made for other individuals at reasonable cost of copying and mailing only, no additional charges may be added. Not for "share-ware" distribution or inclusion in any commercial enterprise. ************************************************************************ MYSTERIES: LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC. 1898. {columns resume} THE FIVE KISSES.<<1>> I. AFTER CONFESSION. <<1. Crowley's biographer will note the astonishing coincidences of scene and incident between this poem and the events of 1903-4.>> DAY startles the fawn from the avenues deep that look to the east in the heart of the wood: Light touches the trees of the hill with its lips, and God is above them and sees they are good: Night flings from her forehead the purple-black hood. The thicket is sweet with the breath of the breeze made soft by the kisses of slumbering maids; The nymph and the satyr, the fair and the faulty alike are the guests of these amorous shades; The hour of Love flickers and falters and fades. O, listen, my love, to the song of the brook, its murmurs and cadences, trills and low chords; Hark to its silence, that prelude of wonder ringing at last like the clamour of swords That clash in the wrath of the warring of lords. Listen, oh, listen! the nightingale near us swoons a farewell to the blossoming brake; Listen, the thrush in the meadow is singing notes that move sinuous, lithe as a snake; The cushats are cooing, the world is awake. {90A} Only one hour since you whispered the story out of your heart to my tremulous ear; Only one hour since the light of your eyes was the victor of violent sorrow and fear; Your lips were so set to the lips of me here. Surely the victory ripens to perfect conquest of everything set in our way. We must be free as our hearts re, and gather strength for our limbs for the heat of the fray: The battle is ours if you say me not nay. Fly with me far, where the ocean is bounded white by the walls of the northernmost shore, Where on a lone rocky island a castle laughs in its pride at the billows that roar, My home where our love may have peace evermore. Yes, on one whisper the other is waiting patient to catch the low tone of delight. Kiss me again for the amorous answer; close your dear eyelids and think it is night, The hour of the even we fix for the flight. II. THE FLIGHT. LIFT up thine eyes! for night is shed around, As light profound, And visible as snow on steepled hills, Where silence fills The shaded hollows: night, a royal queen Most dimly seen {90B} Through silken curtains that bedeck the bed, Lift up thine head! For night is here, a dragon, to devour The slow sweet hour Filled with all smoke of incense, and the praise More loud than day's That swings its barren censer in the sky And asks to die Because the sea will hear no hollow moan Beyond its own, Because the sea that kissed dead Sappho<<1>> sings Of strange dark things -- <<1. Sappho, the great lyric poet of Greece, plunged from a rock into the sea, according to later tradition.>> Shapes of bright breasts that purple as the sun Grows dark and dun, Of pallid lips more haggard for the kiss Of Salmacis,<<1>> <<1. A stream into which a man plunged, and was united, as a Hermaphrodite, with its attendant nymph. The reference is connected with Sappho's loves. See her Ode to Aphrodite and Swinburn's Anactoria and Hermaphroditus.>> Of eager eyes that startle for the fear Too dimly dear Lest there come death, like passion, and fulfil Their dreams of ill! Oh! lift thy forehead to the night's cool wind! The meekest hind That fears the noonday in her grove is bold To seek the gold So pale and perfect as the moon puts on: The light is gone. Hardly as yet one sees the crescent maid Move, half afraid, Into the swarthy forest of the air And breast made bare, Gather her limbs about her for the chase Through starry space, And, while the lilies sway their heads, to bend Her bow, to send {91A} A swift white arrow at some recreant star. The sea is far Dropped in the hollows of the swooning land. Oh! hold my hand! Lift up thy deep eyes to my face, and let Our lips forget The dumb dead hours before they met together! The snowbright weather Calls us beyond the grassy down, to be Beside the sea, The slowly-breathing ocean of the south. Oh, make thy mouth A rosy flame like that most perfect star Whose kisses are So red and ripe! Oh, let thy limbs entwine Like love with mine! Oh, bend thy gracious body to my breast To sleep, to rest! But chiefly let thine eyes be set on me, As when the sea Lay like a mirror to reflect the shape Of yonder cape Where Sappho stood and touched the lips of death! Thy subtle breath Shall flow like incense in between our cheeks, Where pleasure seeks In vain a wiser happiness. And so Our whispers low Shall dim the utmost beauty of thy gaze Through moveless days And long nights equable with tranced pleasure: So love at leisure Shall make his model of our clinging looks, And burn his books To write a new sweet volume deeper much, And frail to touch, Being the mirror of a gossamer Too soft and fair. This is the hour when all the world is sleeping; The winds are keeping A lulling music on the frosty sea. The air is free, {91B} As free as summer-time, to sound or cease: God's utmost peace Lies like a cloud upon the quiet land. O little hand! White hand with rose leaves shed about the tips, As if my lips Had left their bloom upon it when they kissed As if a mist Of God's delicious dawn had overspread Their face, and fled! O wonderful fresh blossom of the wood! O purpling blood! O azure veins as clear as all the skies! O longing eyes That look upon me fondly to beget Two faces, set Either like lowers upon their laughing blue, Where morning dew Sparkles with all the passion of the dawn! The happy lawn Leads, by the stillest avenues, to groves Made soft by loves; And all the nymphs have made a mossy dell Hard by the well Where even a Satyr might behold the grace Of such a face As his<<1>> who perished for his own delights, So well requites <<1. Narcissus, a beautiful youth, inaccessible to love. Echo, a nymph enamoured of him, died of neglect. To punish him, Nemesis caused him to behold his image in a pool; he pined of love for the reflection, and was changed into the flower which still bears his name.>> That witching fountain his desire that looks. Two slow bright brooks Encircle it with silver, and the moon Strikes into tune The ripples as they break. For here it was Their steps did pass, Dreamy Endymion's and Artemis',<<1>> Who bent to kiss <<1. The reader may consult Keats's poem of "Endymion.">> Across the moss-grown rocks that build the well: And here they tell {92A} Of one<<1>> beneath the hoary stone who hid And watched unbid <<1. A gentle sophistication of the story of Actaeon who beheld Artemis at the bath, and being changed into a stag, was torn to pieces by her hounds.>> When one most holy came across the glade, Who saw a maid So bright that mists were dim upon his eyes, And yet he spies So sweet a vision that his gentle breath Sighed into death: And others say that her the fairies bring The fairy king,<<1>> <<1. From sophistication Crowley proceeds to pure invention.>> And crown him with a flower of eglantine, And of the vine Twist him a throne made perfect with wild roses, And gathered posies From all the streams that wander through the vale, And crying, "Hail! All hail, most beautiful of all our race!" Cover his face With blossoms gathered from a fairy tree Like foam from sea, So delicate that mortal eyes behold Ephemeral gold Flash, and not see a flower, but say the moon Has shone too soon Anxious to great Endymion; and this Most dainty kiss They cover him him withal, and Dian sees Through all the trees No pink pale blossom of his tender lips. The little ships Of silver leaf and briar-bloom sail here, No storm to fear, Though butterflies be all their mariners. The whitethroat stirs The beech-leaves to awake the tiny breeze That soothes the seas, And yet gives breath to shake their fairy sails; Young nightingales, Far through the golden plumage of the night, With strong delight {92B} Purple the evening with amazing song; The moonbeams throng In shining clusters to the fairy throat, Whose clear trills float And dive and run about the crystal deep As sweet as sleep. Only, fair love of this full heart of mine, There lacks the wine Our kisses might pour out for them; they wait, And we are late; Only, my flower of all the world, the thrush (You hear him? Hush!) Lingers, and sings not to his fullest yet: Our love shall get Such woodland welcome as none ever had To make it glad. Come, it is time, cling closer to my hand. We understand. We must go forth together, not to part. O perfect heart! O little heart that beats to mine, away Before the day Ring out the tocsin for our flight! My ship Is keen to dip Her plunging forehead in the silvering sea. To-morrow we Shall be so far away, and then to-morrow Shall shake off sorrow And be to-morrow and not change for ever: No dawn shall sever The sleepy eyelids of the night, no eve Shall fall and cleave The blue deep eyes of day. Your hand, my queen! Look down and lean Your whole weight on me, then leap out, as light As swallow's flight, And race across the shadows of the moon, And keep the tune With ringing hoofs across the fiery way. Your eyes betray How eager is your heart, and yet -- O dare To fashion fair A whole long life of love! Leap high, laugh low! I love you -- so! -- {93A) One kiss -- and then to freedom! See the bay So far away, But not too far for love! Ring out, sharp hoof, And put to proof The skill of him that steeled thee! Freedom! Set As never yet Thy straining sides for freedom! Gallant mare! The frosty air Kindles the blood within us as we race. O love! Thy face Flames with the passion of our happy speed! The noble steed Pashes the first gold limit of the sand. Ah love, thy hand! We win, no foot pursuing spans the brow! Yes, kiss me now! III. THE SPRING AFTER. NORTH, by the ice-belt, where the cliffs appease Innumerable clamour of sundering seas, And garlands of ungatherable foam Wild as the horses maddening toward home, Where through the thunderous burden of the thaw Rings the sharp fury of the breaking flaw, Where summer's hand is heavy on the snow, And springtide bursts the insuperable floe, North, by the limit of the ocean, stands A castle, lord of those far footless hands That are the wall of that most monstrous world About whose pillars Behemoth is curled, About whose gates Leviathan is strong, Whose secret terror sweetens not for song. The hoarse loud roar of gulphs of raging brine That break in foam and fire on that divine Cliff-base, is smothered in the misty air, And no sound penetrates them, save a rare {93} Music of sombre motion, swaying slow. The sky above is one dark indigo Voiceless and deep, no light is hard within To shame love's lips and rouse the silky skin From its dull olive to a perfect white. For scarce an hour the golden rim of light Tinges the southward bergs; for scarce an hour The sun puts forth his seasonable flower, And only for a little while the wind Wakes at his coming, and beats cold and blind On the wild sea that struggles to release The hard grip from its throat, and lie at ease Lapped in the eternal summer. But its waves Roam through the solitude of empty caves In vain; no faster wheels the moon above; And still reluctant fly the hours of love. It is so peaceful in the castle: here The night of winter never froze a tear On my love's cheek or mine; no sorrow came To track our vessel by its wake of flame Wherein the dolphin bathed his shining side; No smallest cloud between me and my bride Came like a little mist; one tender fear, Too sweet to speak of, closed the dying year With love more perfect, for its purple root Might blossom outward to the snowy fruit Whose bloom to-night lay sleeping on her breast, As if a touch might stir the sunny nest, Break the spell's power, and bid the spirit fly Who had come near to dwell with us. But I Bend through long hours above the dear twin life, Look from love's guerdon to the lover-wife, And back again to that small face so sweet, And downwards to the little rosy feet, And see myself no longer in her eyes So perfectly as here, where passion lies Buried and re-arisen and complete. O happy life too sweet, too perfect sweet, O happy love too perfectly made one Not to arouse the envy of the sun {94A} Who sulks six months<<1>> for spite of it! O love, <<1. In Arctic latitudes the sun hardly rises at all from September to March, and is only visible in the south.>> Too pure and fond for those pale gods above, Too perfect for their iron rods to break, Arise, awake, and die for death's own sake! That one forgetfulness may take us three, Still three, still one, to the Lethean sea; That all its waters may be sweet as those We wandered by, sweet sisters of the rose, That perfect night before we fled, we two Who were so silent down that avenue Grown golden with the moonlight, who should be No longer two, but one; nor one, but three. And now it is the spiring; the ice is breaking; The waters roar; the winds their wings are shaking To sweep upon the northland; we shall sail Under the summer perfume of the gale To some old valley where the altars steam Before the gods, and where the maidens dream Their little lives away, and where the trees Shake laughing tresses at the rising breeze, And where the wells of water lie profound, And not unfrequent is the silver sound Of shepherds tuneful as the leaves are green, Whose reedy music echoes, clear and clean, From rocky palaces where gnomes delight To sport all springtime, where the brooding night With cataract is musical, and thrushes Throb their young love beside the stream that rushes Headlong to beat its foamheads into snow, Where the sad swallow calls, and pale songs flow To match the music of the nightingale. There, where the pulses of the summer fail, The fiery flakes of autumn fall, and there Some warm perfection of the lazy air Swims through the purpling veins of lovers. Hark! A faint bird's note, as if a silver spark {94B} Struck from a diamond; listen, wife, and know How perfectly I love to watch you so. Wake, lover, wake, but stir not yet the child: Wake, and thy brow serene and low and mild Shall take my kisses, and my lips shall seek The pallid roses on thy perfect cheek, And kiss them into poppies, and thy mouth Shall lastly close to mine, as in the south We see the sun close fast upon the sea; So, my own heart, thy mouth must close on me. Art thou awake? Those eyes of wondering love, Sweet as the dawn and softer than the dove, Seek no quick vision -- yet they move to me And, slowly, to the child. How still are we! Yes, and a smile betokens that they wake Or dream a waking dream for kisses' sake; Yes, I will touch thee, O my low sweet brow! My wife, thy lips to mine -- yes, kiss me now! IV. THE VOYAGE SOUTHWARD. HOLY as heaven, the home Of winds, the land of foam, The palace of the waves, the house of rain, Deeper than ocean, dark As dawn before the lark Flings his sharp song to skyward, and is fain To light his lampless eyes At the flower-folded skies Where stars are hidden in the blue, to fill His beak with star-dropt dew, His little heart anew With love an song to swell it to his will; Holy as heaven, the place Before the golden face {95A} Of God is very silent at the dawn. The even keel is keen To flash the waves between, But no soft moving current is withdrawn: We float upon the blue Like sunlight specks in dew, And like the moonlight on the lake we lie: The northern gates are past, And, following fair and fast, The north wind drove us under such a sky, Faint with the sun's desire, And clad in fair attire Of many driving cloudlets; and we flew Like swallows to the South. The ocean's curving mouth Smiled day by day and nights of starry blue; Nights when the sea would shake Like sunlight where the wake Was wonderful with flakes of living things That leapt for joy to feel The cold exultant keel Flash, and the white ship dip her woven wings; Nights when the moon would hold Her lamp of whitest gold To see us on the poop together set With one desire, to be Alone upon the sea And touch soft hands, and hold white bosoms yet, And see in silent eyes More stars than all the skies Together hold within their limits gray, To watch the red lips move For slow delight of love Till the moon sigh and sink, and yield her sway Unto the eastern lord That draws a sanguine sword And starts up eager in the dawn, to see Bright eyes grow dim for sleep, And lazy bosoms keep Their slumber perfect and their sorcery, While dawny winds arise, And fast the white ship flies {95B} To those young groves of olive by the shore, The spring-clad shore we seek That slopes to yonder peak Snow-clad, bright-gleaming, as the silver ore Plucked<<1>> by pale fingers slow In balmy Mexico, A king on thunder throned, his diadem The ruby rocks that flash The sunlight like a lash When sunlight touches, and sweeps over them A crown of light! Behold! The white seas touch the gold, And flame like flowers of fire about the prow. It is the hour for sleep: -- Lulled by the moveless deep To sleep, sweet wife, to sleep! Yes, kiss me now! <<1. Referring to the story of the accidental discovery of the mine of Potosi by a man who, plucking of a plant, found its roots shining with silver.>> V. THE ULTIMATE VOYAGE.<<1>> <<1. The Spiritual Journey towards the Supreme Knowledge which is life and bliss.>> THE wandering waters move about the world, And lap the sand, with quietest complaint Borne on the wings of dying breezes up, To where we make toward the wooded top Of yonder menacing hill. The night is fallen Starless and moonless, black beyond belief, Tremendous, only just the ripple keeps Our souls from perishing in the inane, With music borrowed from the soul of God. We twain go thither, knowing no desire To lead us; but some strong necessity Urges, as lightning thunder, our slow steps Upward. For on the pleasant meadow-land That slopes to sunny bays, and limpid seas (That breathe like maidens sleeping, for their breast Is silver with the sand that lies below,) Where our storm-strengthened dragon rests at last, {96A} And by whose borders we have made a home, More like a squirrel's bower than a house. For in this blue Sicilian summertime The trees arch tenderly for lovers' sleep, And all the interwoven leaves are fine To freshen us with dewdrops at the dawn, Or let the summer shower sing through to us, And welcome kisses of the silver rain That raps and rustles in the solitude. But in the night there came to us a cry: "The mountains are your portion, and the hills Your temple, and you are chosen." Then I woke Pondering, and my lover woke and said: "I heard a voice of one majestical With waving beard, most ancient, beautiful, Concealed and not concealed;<> and awoke, Feeling a stronger compulsion on my soul To go some whither." And the dreams were one (We somehow knew), and, looking such a kiss As lovers' eyes can interchange, our lips Met in the mute agreement to obey. So, girding on our raiment, as to pass Some whither of long doubtful journeying, We went forth blindly to the horrible Damp darkness of the pines above. And there Strange beasts crossed path of ours, such beasts as earth Bears not, distorted, tortured, loathable, Mouthing with hateful lips some recent blood, or snarling at our feet. But these attacked No courage of our hearts, we faltered not, And they fell back, snake's mouth and leopard's throat, Afraid. But others fawning came behind With clumsy leapings as in friendliness, Dogs with men's faces, and we beat them off With scabbard, and the hideous path wound on. And these perplexed our goings, for no light Gleamed through the bare pine-ruins lava-struck, {96B} Nor even the hellish fire of Etna's maw. But lucklessly we came upon a pool Dank, dark, and stagnant, evil to the touch, Oozing towards us, but sucked suddenly, Silently, horribly, by slow compulsion Into the slipping sand, and vanishing, Whereon we saw a little boat appear, And in it such a figure as we knew Was Death. But she, intolerant of delay, Hailed him. The vessel floated to our feet, And Death was not. She leapt within, and bent Her own white shoulders to the thwart, and bade Me steer, and keep stern watch with sword unsheathed For fear of something that her soul had seen Above. And thus upon the oily black Silent swift river we sailed out to reach Its source, no longer feeling as compelled, But led by some incomprehensible Passion. And here lewd fishes snapped at us, And watersnakes writhed silently toward Our craft. But these I fought against, and smote head from foul body, to our further ill, For frightful jelly-monsters grew apace, And all the water grew one slimy mass Of crawling tentacles. My sword was swift That slashed and slew them, chiefly to protect The toiling woman, and assure our path Through this foul hell. And now the very air Is thick with cold wet horrors. With my sword Trenchant, that tore their scaly essences -- Like Lucian's sailor writhing in the clutch Of those witch-vines -- I slashed about like light, And noises horrible of death devoured The hateful suction of their clinging arms And wash of slipping bellies. Presently Sense failed, and -- Nothing! By-and-by we woke In a most beautiful canoe of pearl Lucent on lucent water, in a sun {97A} That was the heart of spring. But the green land Seemed distant, with a sense of aery height; As if it were below us far, that seemed Around. And as we gazed the water grew Ethereal, thin, most delicately hued, Misty, as if its substance were dissolved In some more subtle element. We heard "O passers over water, do ye dare To tread the deadlier kingdoms of the air?" Whereat I cried: Arise! And then the pearl Budded with nautilius-wings, and upward now Soared. And our souls began to know the death That was about to take us. All our veins Boiled with tumultuous and bursting blood; Our flesh broke bounds, and all our bones grew fierce, As if some poison ate us up. And lo! The air is peopled with a devil-tribe Born of our own selves. These, grown furious At dispossession by the subtle air, Contend with us, who know the agony Of half life drawn out lingering, who groan Eaten as if by worms, who dash ourselves Vainly against the ethereal essences That make our boat, who vainly strive to cast Our stricken bodies over the pale edge And drop and end it all. No nerve obeys; But in the torn web of our brains is born The knowledge that release is higher yet. So, lightened of the devils that possessed In myriad hideousness our earthier lives, With one swift impulse, we ourselves shake off The clinging fiends, and shaking even the boat As dust beneath our feet, leap up and run Upward, and flash, and suddenly sigh back Happy, and rest with limbs entwined at last On pale blue air, the empyreal floor, As on a bank of flowers in the old days Before this journey. So I think we slept. But now, awaking, suddenly we feel A sound as if within us, and without, So penetrating and so self-inspired {97B} Sounded the voice we knew as God's. The words Were not a question any more, but said: "The last and greatest is within you now." Then fire too subtle and omniscient Devoured our substance, and we moved again Not down, not up, but inwards mystically Involving self in self, and light in light. And this was not a pain, but peaceable Like young-eyed love, reviving; it consumed And consecrated and made savour sweet To our changed senses. And the dual self Of love grew less distinct and I began To feel her heart in mine, her lips in mine. ... Then mistier grew the sense of God without, And God was I, and nothing might exist, Subsist, or be at all, outside of Me, Myself Existence of Existences. . . . . . We had passed unknowing to the woody crown Of the little hill. There was a secret Vault. We entered. All without the walls appeared As fire, and all within as icy light; The altar was of gold, and on it burnt Some ancient perfume. Then I saw myself And her together, as a priest, whose robe Was white and frail, and covered with a cope Of scarlet bound with gold: upon the head A golden crown, wherein a diamond shone; Within which diamond we beheld our self The higher priest, not clothed, but clothed upon With the white brilliance of high nakedness As with a garment.<<1>> Then of our self there came A voice: "Ye have attained to That which Is; Kiss, and the vision is fulfilled." And so Our bodies met, and, meeting did not touch But interpenetrated in the kiss . . . . . <<1. See the Description of the robes and crown of the Magus in the"Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage.">> This writing is engraved on lamina Of silver, found by me, the trusted friend {98A} And loving servant of my lady and lord, In that abandoned Vault, of late destroyed By Etna's fury. Nothing else remained (Save in the ante-room the sword we knew So often flashing at the column-head) Within. I think my lord has written this. Now for the child, whose rearing is my care, And in whose life is left my single hope, This writing shall conclude the book of song His father made in worship and true love Of his fair lady, and these songs shall be His hope, and his tradition, and his pride. Thus have I written for the sake of truth, And for his sake who bears his father's sword -- I pray God under my fond guardianship As worthily. Thus far, and so -- the end. THE HONOURABLE ADULTERERS I. I LOOKED beneath her eyelids, where her eyes Like stars were deep, and dim like summer skies; I looked beneath their lashes; and behold! My own thought mirrored in their maiden gold. Shame drew to them to cloud their light with lies, And shrank back shamed; but Love waxed bright and bold. The devilish circle of the fiery ring<<1>> Became one moment like a little thing, And Truth and God were near us to withdraw The veil of Love's unalterable law. We feared no fury of the jealous King, But, lest in honour love should find a flaw. {98B} <<1. "i.e." the wedding ring.>> Only our looks and trembling lips we dread, And the dear nimbus of a lover's head, The dreamy splendour and the dim-delight That feels the fragrance fallen from the night, When soul to soul is locked, and eyes are wed, And lips not touched kiss secretly by sight. These things we fear, and move as in a mist One from the other, and we had not kissed. Only the perfume of her lips and hair Love's angel wafted slowly to me there, And as I went like death away I wist Its savour faded, nor my soul aware. I turned and went away, away, away, Out of the night that was to me the day, And road to meet the sun to hide in light The sorrow of the day that was the night. So I rode slowly in the morning gray, And all the meadows with the frost were white. And lo! between the mountains there uprose The winter sun; and all the forest glows, And the frost burns like fire before my eyes, While the white breeze awoke with slumberous sighs And stirred the branches of the pine; it knows, It surely knows how weary are the wise! Even my horse my sorrow understands, Would turn and bear me to those western lands; In love would turn me back; in love would bring My thirsty lips to the one perfect spring -- My iron soul upon my trembling hands Had its harsh will; my bitterness was king. So verily long time I rode afar. My course was lighted by some gloomy star That boded evil, that I would not shun, But rather welcome, as the storm the sun, Lowering and red, a hurtful avatar, Whose fatal forehead like itself is dun {99A} It was no wonder when the second day Showed me a city on the desert way, Whose brazen gates were open, where within I saw a statue for a sign of sin, And saw the people come to it and pray, Before its mouth set open for a gin. And seeing me, a clamour rose among Their dwarfish crowds, whose barbarous harsh tongue Grated, a hateful sound; they plucked me down, And mocked me through the highways of the town, And brought me where they sang to censers swung A grotesque hymn before her body brown. For Sin was like a woman, and her feet Shone, and her face was like the windy wheat; Her eyes were keen and horrible and cold, Her bronze loins girdled with the sacred gold; Her lips were large, and from afar how sweet! How fierce and purple for a kiss to hold! But somehow blood was black upon them; blood In stains and clots and splashes; and the mud Trampled around her by the souls that knelt, Worshipping where her false lewd body dwelt, Was dark and hateful; and a sleepy flood Trickled therefrom as magic gums that melt. I had no care that hour for anything: Not for my love, not for myself; I cling Desperate to despair, as some to hope, Unheeding Saturn in their horoscope; But I, despair is lord of me and king; But I, my thoughts tend ever to the rope. {99B} But I, unknightly, recreant, a coward, Dare not release my soul from fate untoward By such a craven's cunning. Nay, my soul Must move unflinching to what bitter goal The angry gods design -- if gods be froward I am a man, nor fear to drain the bowl. Now some old devil, dead no doubt and damned, But living in her life, had wisely crammed Her fierce bronze throat with such a foul device As made her belly yearn for sacrifice. She leered like love on me, and smiled, and shammed, And did not pity for all her breast of spice. They thrust me in her hateful jaws, and I Even then resisted not, so fain to die Was my desire, so weary of the fight With my own love, so willing to be quite Sure of my strength by death; and eagerly Almost I crossed the barrier keen and white. When lo! a miracle! Her carven hand Is lifted, and the little space is spanned, And I am plucked from out her maw, and set Down on the pedestal, whose polished jet Shone like a mirror out of hell -- I stand Free, where the blood of other men is wet. So slowly, while the mob stood back, I went Out of the city, with no life content, And certain I should meet no death at least. Soon, riding ever to the stubborn east, I came upon a shore whose ocean bent In one long curve, where folk were making feast. {100A} So with no heart to feast, I joined the mirth, Mingled the dances that delight the earth, And laughing looked in every face of guile. Quick was my glance and subtle was my smile; Ten thousand little loves were brought to birth, Ten thousand loves that laughed a little while. No; for one woman did not laugh, too wise! But came so close, and looked within my eyes So deeply that I saw not anything. Only her eyes grew, as a purple ring Shielding the sun. They grew; they uttered lies -- They fascinate and cleave to me and cling. Then in their uttermost profound I saw The veil of Love's unalterable law Lifted, and in the shadow far behind Dim and divine, within the shadow blind My own love's face most amorously draw Out of the deep toward my cloudy mind. O suddenly I felt a kiss enclose My whole live body, as a rich red rose Folding its sweetness round the honey-bee! I felt a perfect soul embracing me, And in my spirit like a river flows A passion like the passion of the sea. II. HE did not kiss me with his mouth; his eyes Kissed mine, and mine kissed back; it was not wise, But yet he had the strength to leave me; so I was so glad he loved enough to go. My arms could never have released his neck; He saved our honour from a single speck. And so he went away; and fate inwove The bitterest of treason for our love. {100B} For scarce two days when sickness took the King, And death dissolved the violence of the ring. I ruled alone: I left my palace gate To see if Love should have the laugh at Fate. And so I violated Death, and died; But in the other land my spirit cried For incarnation; conquering I came Within my soulless body as a flame. Endowing which with sacred power I sought A little while, as thought that seeks for thought. I found his changeless love endure as mine, His passion curl around me as a vine. So clinging fibres of desire control My perfect body,and my perfect soul Shot flakes of light toward him. So my eyes, Seeking his face, wee made divinely wise. So, solemn, silent, 'mid a merry folk I bound him by my forehead's silver yoke, And grew immense about him and within, And so possessed him wholly, without sin. For I had crossed the barrier and knew There was no sin. His lips reluctant grew Ardent at last as recognizing me, And love's wild tempest sweeps upon his sea. And I? I knew not anything, but know We are still silent, and united so, And all our being spells one vast To Be, A passion like the passion of the sea. THE LEGEND OF BEN LEDI.<<1>> <<1. The "Hill of God.">> ON his couch Imperial Alpin<<1>> In majestic grandeur lay, Dying with the sun that faded O'er the plain of granite gray. {101A} <<1. The First King of all Scotland.>> Snowy white his beard descended, Flecked with foeman's crimson gore, And he rose and grasped his broadsword, And he prayed to mighty Thor: "God of thunder, god of battle, God of pillage and of war, Hear the king of Scotland dying On the Leny's thundrous shore! "Thrice three hundred have I smitten With my single arm this day; Now of life my soul is weary, I am old, I pass away. "Grant me this, immortal monarch, Such a tomb as ne'er before, Such a tomb as never after Monarch thought or monarch saw." Then he called his sons around him, And he spake again and cried: "Seven times a clansman's bowshot Lay me from the Leny's side. "Where the plain to westward sinketh, Lay me in my tartan plaid, All uncovered to the tempest, In my hand my trusty blade." Hardly had he spake the order, When his spirit passed away; And his sons their heads uncovered As they bore him o'er the brae. Seven times did Phail McAlpine Bend his mighty bow of yew; Seven times with lightning swiftness West the winged arrow flew. Seven times a clansman's bowshot From the Leny's western shore, Laid they him where on to Achray Spread the plain of Ian Vohr. Hard by Teith's tumultuous waters Camped his sons throughout the night, Till the rosy blush of morning Showed a vast majestic sight {101B} Where of late the plain extended Rose a mighty mass of stone, Pierced the clouds, and sprang unmeasured In magnificence -- alone! There the clansmen stood and wondered, As the rock, supremely dire, Split and trembled, cracked and thundered, Lit with living flecks of fore. Spake the chief: "My trusty clansmen, This is not the day of doom; This is honour to the mighty; Clansmen, this is Alpin's tomb." NYMPSFIELD RECTORY. "December" 1893 A DESCENT OF THE MOENCH.<<1>> <<1. The first guideless traverse of this mountain, one of the peaks of the Bernese Oberland.>> July 14, 1896. AN island of mist. White companies Of clouds thronged wondrously against the hills, And in the east a darkening of the winds That held awhile their breath for very rage, Too wild for aught but vaporous quivering Of melting fleeces, while the sudden sun Fled to his home. Afar the Matterhorn Reared a gaunt pinnacle athwart the bank, Where towered behind it one vast pillar of cloud To thrice its height. Behold the ice-clad dome On which we stood, all weary of the way, And marked the east awaken into scorn, And rush upon us. Then we set our teeth To force a dangerous passage, and essayed The steep slope not in vain. We pushed our way Slowly and careworn down the icy ridge, Hewing with ponderous strokes the riven ice In little flakes and chips, and now again Encountered strange and fearsome sentinels, {102A} Gray pinnacles of lightning-riven rock Fashioned of fire and night. We clomb adown Fantastic cliffs of gnarled stone, and saw The vivid lightning flare in purple robes Of flame along the ridge, and even heard Its terrible crackle, 'mid the sullen roar Of answering thunder. Now the driven hail Beat on our faces, while we strove to fling Aloft the axe of forged steel, encased In glittering ice, and smite unceasingly On the unyielding slope of ice, as black As those most imminent ghosts of Satan's frown That shut us out from heaven, while the snow Froze on our cheeks. Thus then we gained the field Where precipice and overwhelming rock, Avalanche, crag, leap through the dazzled air To pile their mass in one Lethean plain Of undulations of rolled billowy snow Rent, seamed, and scarred with wound on jagged wound, Blue-rushing to the vague expanse below Of the unknown secrecies of mountain song. Dragging behind us beautiful weary limbs, We turned snow-blinded eyes towards the pass<<1>> That shot a jasper wall above the mist Into the lightning-kindled firmament, Behind whose battlements a shelter<<2>> lay, Rude-built of pine, whose parents in the storm Of some vast avalanche were swept away Into the valley. Thither we hasted on, And there, as night stretched out a broken wing Torn by the thunder and the bitter strife Of warring flames and tempest's wrath, we came And flung ourselves within, and laid us down At last to sleep; and Sleep, a veined shape Of naked stateliness, came down to us, And tenderly stooped down, and kissed our brows. {102B} <<1. The Monchjoch.>> <<2. The Berglihutte.>> IN A CORNFIELD. O VOICE of sightless magic Clear through day's crystal sky, Blithe, contemplative, tragic, As men may laugh or sigh; As men may love or sorrow, Their moods thy music borrow To bid them live or die. So sweet, so sad, so lonely, In silent noontide only Thy song-wings float and lie On cloud-foam scarred and riven, By God's red lightnings shriven, And quiet hours are given To him that lingers nigh. Fain would I linger near thee Amid the poppies red, Forget this world, and hear thee As one among the dead; Amid the daffadillies, Red tulips and white lilies, Where daisies' tears are shed; Where larkspur and cornflower Are blue with sunlight's hour, And all the earth is spread As in a dream before me; While steals divinely o'er me Love's scented spring to draw me From moods of dreamy dread. O winged passion! traveller Too near to God to see! O lyrical unraveller Of knotted life to me! O song! O shining river Of thought and sound! O giver Of goodly words of glee! Like to a star that singeth, A flower that incense bringeth, A love-song of the free! Oh! let me sing thy glories While spring winds whisper stories Of winter past, whose shore is Beyond a shoreless sea. {103A} Sing on, thou lyric lover! Sing on, and thrill me long With such delights as cover The days and deeds of wrong! Live lyre of songs immortal That pierce Heaven's fiery portal With shafts of splendour strong, Winged with thought's sharpest fires, Arrowed with soul's desires And sped from thunder's thong; Heaven's gates rock, rage, and quiver, Earth's walls gape wide and shiver, While Freedom doth deliver Men's spirits with thy song. Ah, chainless, distant, fleeting, To lands that know no sea, Where ocean's stormy greeting Fills no man's heart with glee; Where lovers die or sever, And death destroys for ever, And God bears slavery: -- Fly thither, so thou leave us That no man's hand may reave us Of this -- that we are free. Free all men that may heed thee, On freemen's praises feed thee, Who chorus full, "God speed thee, Live lyre of Liberty!" DREAMS. WHAT words are these that shudder through my sleep, Changing from silver into crimson flakes, And molten into gold Like the pale opal through those gray may sweep A scarlet flame, like eyes of crested snakes, Keen, furious, and too cold. What words are these? The pall of slumber lifts; The veil of finiteness withdraws. The night Is heavier, life burns low: {103B} Yet to the quivering brain three goodly gifts The cruelty of Pluto and his might In the abyss bestow: Change, foresight, fear. The pageant whirls and boils; Restricted not by space an time, my dream Foresees the doom of Fate; My spirit wrestles in the Dream-King's toils Always in vain, and Hope's forerunners gleam Alway one step too late. Not as when sunlight strikes the counterpane; Half wakening, sleep rolls back her iron wave, And dawn brings blithesomeness; Not as when opiates lull the tortured brain And sprinkle lotus on the drowsy grave Of earth's old bitterness; But as when consciousness half rouses up And hurls back all the gibbering harpy crowd; And sleep's draught deepeneth, And all the furies of hell's belly sup In the brain's palaces, and chant aloud Songs that foretaste of Death. Maddened, the brain breaks from beneath the goad, Flings off again the foe, and from its hell Brings for a moment peace, Till weariness and her infernal load Of phantom memory-shapes return to quell The shaken fortresses. Till nature reassert her empery, And the full tide of wakefulness at last Foam on the shore of sleep To beat the white cliffs of reality In vain, because their windy strength is past, And only memories weep. {104A} Why is the Finite real? And that world So larger, so more beautiful and fleet, So free, so exquisite, The world of dreams and shadows, not impearled With solitary shaft of Truth? Too sweet, O children of the Night, Are your wide realms for our philosophers, Who must in hard gray balance-shackles bind The essence of all thought: No sorrier sexton in a grave inters The nobler children of a poet's mind Of wine and gold well wrought. By the poor sense of touch they judge that this Or that is real or not. Have they divined This simplest spirit-bond, The joy of some bad woman's deadly kiss; The thought-flash that well tunes a lover's mind Seas and gray gulfs beyond? So that which is impalpable to touch, They judge by touch; the viewless they decide By sight; their logic fails, Their jarring jargon jingles -- even such An empty brazen pot -- wise men deride The clouds that mimic whales. My world shall be my dreams. Religion there And duty may disturb me not at all; Nor doubts, nor fear of death. I straddle on no haggard ghostly mare; Yea, through my God, I have leapt o'er a wall! (As poet David saith.) The wall that ever girds Earth's thought with brass Is all a silver path my feet beneath, And o'er its level sward {104B} Of sea-reflecting white flowers and fresh grass I walk. Man's darkness is a leathern sheath, Myself the sun-bright sword! I have no fear, nor doubt, nor sorrow now, For I give Self to God -- I give my best Of soul and blood and brain To my poor Art -- there comes to me somehow This fact; Man's work is God made manifest; Life is all Peace again. And Dreams are beyond life. Their wider scope, Limitless Empire o'er the world of thought, Help my desires to press Beyond all stars toward God and Heaven and Hope; And in the world-amazing chase is wrought Somehow -- all Happiness. THE TRIUMPH OF MAN. BEFORE the darkness, earlier than being, When yet thought was not, shapeless and unseeing, Made misbegotten of deity on death, There brooded on he waters the strange breath Of an incarnate hatred. Darkness fell And chaos, from prodigious gulphs of hell. Life, that rejoiced to travail with a man, Looked where the cohorts of destruction ran, Saw darkness visible, and was afraid, Seeing. There grew like Death a monster shade, Blind as the coffin, as the covering sod Damp, as the corpse obscene, the Christian God. So to the agony dirges of despair Man cleft the womb, and shook the icy air With bitter cries for light and life and love. But these, begotten of the world above, {105A} Withdrew their glory, and the iron world Rolled on its cruel way, and passion furled Its pure wings, and abased itself, and bore Fetters impure, and stooped, and was no more. But resurrection's ghastly power grew strong, And Lust was born, adulterous with Wrong, The Child of Lies; so man was blinded still, Garnered the harvest of abortive ill, For wheat reaped thistles, and for worship wrought A fouler idol of his meanest thought: A monster, vengeful, cruel, traitor, slave, Lord of disease and father of the grave, A treacherous bully, feeble as malign, Intolerable, inhuman, undivine, With spite close girded and with hatred shod, A snarling cur, the Christian's Christless God. Out! misbegotten monster! with thy brood, The obscene offspring of thy pigritude, Incestuous wedlock with the Pharisees That hail the Christ a son of thee! Our knees Bend not before thee, and our earth-bowed brows Shake off their worship, and reject thy spouse, The harlot of the world! For, proud and free, We stand beyond thy hatred, even we: We broken in spirit beneath bitter years, Branded with the burnt-offering of tears, Spit out upon the lie, and in thy face Cast back the slimy falsehood; to your place, Ye Gadarean swine, too foul to fling Into the waters that abound and spring! Back, to your mother filth! With hope, and youth, Love, light, and power, and mastery of truth Armed, we reject you; the bright scourge we ply, Your howling spirits stumble to your sty: The worm that was your lie -- our heel its head Bruises, that bruised us once; the snake is dead. Who of mankind that honours man discerns That man of all men, whose high spirit burns, {105B} Crowned over life, and conqueror of death, The godhood that was Christ of Nazareth -- Who of all men, that will not gird his brand And purge from priestcraft the uxorious land? Christ, who lived, died, and lived, that man might be Tameless and tranquil as the summer sea, That laughs with love of the broad skies of noon, And dreams of lazy kissings of the moon, But listens for the summons of the wind, Shakes its white mane, and hurls its fury blind Against oppression, gathers its steep side, Rears as a springing tiger, flings its tide Tremendous on the barriers, smites the sand, And gluts its hunger on the breaking land; Engulphing waters fall and overwhelm: -- Christ, who stood dauntless at the shaken helm On Galilee, who quelled the wrath of God, And rose triumphant over faith, and trod With calm victorious feet the icy way When springtide burgeoned, and the rosy day Leapt from beneath the splendours of the snow: -- Christ, ultimate master of man's hateful foe, And lord of his own soul and fate, strikes still From man's own heaven, against the lord of ill; Stage thunders mock the once terrific nod That spoke the fury of the Christian God, Whose slaves deny, too cowardly to abjure, Their desecrated Moloch. The impure Godhead is powerless, even on the slave, Who once could scar the forehead of the brave, Break love's heart pitiful, and reach the strong Through stricken children, and a mother's wrong. Day after darkness, life beyond the tomb! Manhood reluctant from religion's womb Leaps, and sweet laughters flash for freedom's birth That thrills the old bosom of maternal earth. {106A} The dawn has broken; yet the impure fierce fire Kindles the grievous furnace of desire Still for the harpy brood of king and priest, Slave, harlot, coward, that make human feast Before the desecrated god, in hells Of darkness, where the mitred vampire dwells, Where still death reigns, and God and priests are fed, Man's blood for wine, man's flesh for meat and bread, The lands of murder, of the obscene things That snarl at freedom, broken by her wings, That prop the abomination, cringe and smile, Caressing the dead fetich, that defile With hideous sacraments the happy land. Destruction claims its own; the hero's hand Grips the snake's throat; yea, on its head is set The heel that crushes it, the serpent wet With that foul blood, from human vitals drained, From tears of broken women, and sweat stained From torturers' cloths; the sickly tide is poured, And all the earth is blasted; the green sward Burns where it touches, and the barren sod Rejects the poison of the blood of God. Yet, through the foam of waters that enclose Their sweet salt bosoms, through the summer rose, Through flowers of fatal fire, through fields of air That summer squanders, ere the bright moon bare Her maiden bosom, through the kissing gold Where lovers' lips are molten, and breasts hold Their sister bodies, and deep eyes are wed, And fire of fire enflowers the sacred head Of mingling passion, through the silent sleep Where love sobs out its life, and new loves leap To being, through the dawn of all new things, There burns an angel whose amazing wings {106B} Wave in the sunbright air, whose lips of flame Chant the almighty music of One Name Whose perfume fills the silent atmosphere, Whose passionate melodies caress the ear; An angel, strong and eloquent, aloud Cries to the earth to lift the final shroud, And, having burst Faith's coffin, to lay by The winding-sheet of Infidelity, And rise up naked, as a god, to hear This message from the reawakened sphere; Words with love clothed, with life immortal shod: -- "Mankind is made a little part of God."<<1>> <<1. "i.e." the idea of God, dissociated from the legends of priests, and assimilated to the impersonal Parabrahma of the Hindu. This dual use of the word is common throughout Crowley: the context is everywhere sufficient to decide. In the play "Jephthah," however, conventional ideas are followed.>> Till the response, full chorus of the earth, Flash through the splendid portals of rebirth, Completing Truth in its amazing span: -- "Godhead is made the Spirit that is Man." To whose white mountains, and their arduous ways, Turn we our purpose, till the faith that slays Yield up its place to faith that gives us life, The faith to conquer in the higher strife; Our single purpose, and sublime intent, With their split blood to seal our sacrament, Who stand among the martyrs of the Light; Our single purpose, by incarnate might Begotten after travail unto death, To live within the light that quickeneth; To tread base thoughts as our high thoughts have trod, Deep in the dust, the carrion that was God; Conquer our hatreds as the dawn of love Conquered that fiend whose ruinous throne above Broke lofty spirits once, now falls with fate, At last through his own violence violate; {107A} To live in life, breathe freedom with each breath, As God breathed tyranny and died in death; Secure the sacred fastness of the soul, Uniting self to the absolute, the whole, The universal marriage of mankind, Free, perfect, broken from the chains that bind, Force infinite, love pure, desire untold, And mutual raptures of the age of gold, The child of freedom! So the moulder, man, Shake his grim shoulders, and the shadows wan Fall to forgetfulness; so life revives And new sweet loves beget diviner lives, And Freedom stands, re-risen from the rod, A goodlier godhead than the broken God; Uniting all the universe in this Music more musical than breezes' kiss, A song more potent that the sullen sea, The triumph of the freedom of the free; One stronger song than thrilled the rapturous birth Of stars and planets and the mother, earth; As lovers, calling lovers when they die, Strangle death's torture in love's agony; As waters, shaken by the storm, that roar, Sea unto sea; as stars that burn before The blackness; as the mighty cry of swords Raging through battle, for its stronger chords; And for its low entrancing music, made As waters lambent in the listening glade; As Sappho's yearning to to the amorous sea; As Man's Prometheus, in captivity Master and freeman; as the holy tune All birds, all lovers, whisper to the moon. So, passionate and pure, the strong chant rolls, Queen of the mystic unity of souls; So from eternity its glory springs King of the magical brotherhood of kings; The absolute crown and kingdom of desire, Earth's virgin chaplet, molten in the fire, Sealed in the sea, betokened by the wind: "There is one God, the Spirit of Mankind!" {107B} THE DREAMING DEATH.<<1>> <<1. The scene of this poem is a little spinney near the wooden bridge in Love Lane, Cambridge. -- A.C.>> MY beauty in thy deep pure love Anchors its homage far above All lights of heaven. The stars awake; The very stars bend down to take From its fresh fragrance for the sake Of their own cloud-compelling peace. On earth there lies a silver fleece Of new-fallen snow, secure from sun, In alleys, leafy every one This year already with the spring. The breeze blows freshly, thrushes sing, And all the woods are burgeoning With quick new buds; across the snow The scent of violets to and fro Wafts at the hour of dawn. Alone I wait, a figure turned to stone (Or salt for pain). A week ago Thine arms embraced me; now I know Far off they clasp the empty air: Thy lips seek home, and in despair Lament aloud over the frosted moor. Sad am I, sad, albeit sure There is no change of God above And no abatement of our love. For still, though thou be gone, I see In the glad mirror secretly That I am beautiful in thee. Thy love irradiates my eyes, Tints my skin gold; its melodies Of music run over my face; Smiles envy kisses in the race To bathe beneath my eyelids. Light Clothes me and circles with the might Of warmer rosier suns. Thy kiss Dwells on my bosom, and it is A glittering mount of fire, that burns Incense unnamed to heaven, and yearns In smoke toward thy home. Desire Bellies the sails of molten fire Upon the ship of Youth with wind Urgently panting out behind, Impatient till the strand appear {108A} And the blue sea have ceased to rear Fountains of foam against the prow. Hail! I can vision even now That golden shore. A lake of light Burns to the sky; above, the night Hovers, her wings grown luminous. (I think she dearly loveth us.) The sand along the glittering shore Is all of diamond; rivers pour Unceasing floods of light along, Whose virtue is so bitter strong That he who bathes within them straight Rises an angel to the gate Of heaven and enters as a king. Birds people it on varied wing Of rainbow; fishes gold and fine Dart like bright stars through fount and brine, And all the sea about our wake Foams with the silver water-snake. There is a palace veiled in mist. A single magic amethyst Built it; the incense soothly sighs; So the light stream upon it lies. There thou art dwelling. I am ware The music of thine eyes and hair Calls to the wind to chase our ship Faster toward; the waters slip Smoothly and swift beneath the keel. The pulses of the vessel feel I draw toward thee; now the sails Hang idly, for the golden gales Drop as the vessel grates the sand. Come, thou true love, and hold my hand! I tremble (for my love) to land. I feel thy arms around me steal; Thy breath upon my cheeks I feel; Thy lips draw out to mine: the breath Of ocean grows as still as death; The breezes swoon for very bliss. The sacrament of true love's kiss Accomplishes: I feel a pain Stab my heart through and sleep again, And I am in thine arms for ever. . . . . . There came a tutor, who had never Known the response of love to love; He wandered through the woods above The river, and came suddenly {108B} Where he lay sleeping. Purity And joy beyond the speech of man Dwelt on his face, divinely wan. "How beautiful is sleep!" he saith, Bends over him. There is no breath, No sound, no motion: it is death. And gazing on the happy head "How beautiful is Death!" he said. A SONNET IN SPRING. O CHAINLESS Love, the frost is in my brain, Whose swift desires and swift intelligence Are dull and numb to-day; because the sense Only responds to the sharp key of pain. O free fair Love, as welcome as the rain On thirsty fallows, come, and let us hence Far where the veil of Summer lies immense, A haze of heat on ocean's purple plain. O wingless Love, let us away together Where the sure surf rings round the beaten strand; Where the sky stands, a dome of flawless weather, And the stars join in one triumphal band, Because we broke the inexorable tether That bound our passion with an iron hand. DE PROFUNDIS.<<1>> <<1. Composed while walking home through the starry streets from an evil evening in St. Petersburg. Vv. 1-3 are the feelings, vv."sqq." the reflections thus engendered.>> BLOOD, mist, and foam, then darkness. On my eyes Sits heaviness, the poor worn body lies Devoid of nerve and muscle; it were death Save for the heart that throbs, the breast that sighs. The brain reels drowsily, the mind is dulled, Deadened and drowned by noises that are lulled By the harsh poison of the hateful breath. All sense and sound and seeing is annulled. {109A} Within a body dead a deadened brain Beats with the burden of a shameful pain, The sullen agony that dares to think, And think through sleep, and wake to think again. Fools! bitter fools! Our breaths and kisses seem Constrained in devilry, debauch, and dream: Lives logged in the morass of meat and drink, Loves dipped in Phlegethon,<<1>> the perjured stream. <<1. The fiery river of Hades.>> Behold we would that hours and minutes pass, Watch the sands falling in the eager glass; To wile their weariness is pleasure's bliss; But ah! the years! like smoke They fade, alas! We weep them as they slip away; we gaze Back on the likeness of the former days -- The hair we fondle and the lips we kiss -- Roses grow yellow and no purple stays. Ah! the old years! Come back, ye vanished hours We wasted; come, grow red, ye faded flowers! What boots the weariness of olden time Now, when old age, a tempest-fury, lowers? Up to high God beyond the weary land The days drift mournfully; His hoary hand Gathers them. Is it so? My foolish rhyme Dreams they are links upon an endless band. The planets draw in endless orbits round The sun; itself revolves in the profound Deep wells of space; the comet's mystic track By the strong rule of a closed curve is bound. {109B} Why not with time? To-morrow we may see The circle ended -- if to-morrow be -- And gaze on chaos, and a week bring back Adam and Eve beneath the apple tree. Or, like the comet, the wild race may end Out into darkness, and our circle bend Round to all glory in a sudden sweep, And speed triumphant with the sun to friend. Love will not leave my home. She knows my tears, My angers and caprices; still my ears Listen to singing voices, till I weep Once more, less sadly, and set hounds on fears. She will not leave me comfortless. And why? Through the dimmed glory of my clouded eye She catches one sharp glint of love for her: She will not leave me ever till I die: -- Nay, though I die! Beyond the distant gloom Heaven springs, a fountain, out of Change's womb! Time would all men within the grave inter: -- For Time himself shall no god find a tomb? Glory and love and work precipitate The end of man's desire -- so sayeth Fate. Man answers: Love is stronger, work more sure, Glory more fadeless than her shafts abate. Though all worlds fail, the pulse of Life be still, God fall, all darken, she hath not her will Of deeds beyond recall, that shall endure: For us, these three divinest glasses fill, Fill to the brim with lustrous dew, nor fail To leave the blossom and the nightingale, Love's earlier kiss, and manhood's glowing prime, These us suffice. Shall man or Fate prevail? {110A} Lo, we are blind, and dubious fingers grope In Despair's dungeon for the key of Hope;<<1>> Lo, we are chained, and with a broken rhyme Would file our fetters and enlarge our scope. <<1. See Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, where Hope unlocks the dungeon of Giant Despair. Crowley more wisely would use the key of Work.>> Yet ants may move the mountain; none is small But he who stretches out no arm at all; Toadstools have wrecked fair cities in a night, One poet's song may bid a kingdom fall. Add to thy fellow-men one ounce of aid -- The block begins to shift, the start is made: The rest is thine; with overwhelming might The balance changes,and the task is paid. Join'st thou thy feeble hands in foolish prayer To him thy brain hath moulded and set there In thy brain's heaven? Such a god replies As thy fears move. So men pray everywhere. What God there be, is real. By His might Begot the universe within the night; If he had prayed to His own mind's weak lies Think'st thou the heaven and earth had stood upright? Remember Him, but smite! No workman hews His stone aright whose nervy arms refuse To ply the chisel, but are raised to ask A visionary foreman he may choose From the distortions of a sodden mind. God did first work on earth when woman-kind He chipped from Adam's rib -- a thankless task I wot His wisdom has long since repined. {110B} Christ touched the leper and the widow's son; And thou wouldst serve the work the Perfect One Began, by folding arms and gazing up To heaven, as if thy work were rightly done. I tell thee, He should say, if ye were met: "Thou hadst a talent -- ah, thou hast it yet Wrapped in a napkin! thou shalt drain the cup Of that damnation that may not forget "The wasted hours!" Ah, bitter interest Of our youth's capital -- forgotten zest In all the pleasures of o'erflowing life, Wine tasteless, tired the brain, and cold the breast! Ah! but if with it is one good deed wrought, One kind word spoken, one immortal thought Born in thee, all is paid; the weary strife Grows victory. "Love is all and Death is nought." Such an one wrote that word<<1>> as I would meet, Lay my life's burden at his silver feet, Have him give ear if I say "Master." Yea! I know no heaven, no honour, half so sweet! <<1. Browning, in "The Householder.">> He passed before me on the wheel of Time, He who knows no Time -- the intense sublime Master of all philosophy and play, Lord of all love and music and sweet rhyme. Follow thou him! Work ever, if thy heart Be fervent with one hope, thy brain with art, Thy lips with song, thine arm with strength to smite: Achieve some act; its name shall not depart. Christ laid Love's corner-stone, and Caesar built The tower of glory; Sappho's life was split From fervent lips the torch of song to ignite: Thou mayst add yet a stone -- if but thou wilt. {111A} And yet the days stream by; night shakes the day From his pale throne of purple, to allay The tremors of the earth; day smiteth dark With the swift poignard dipped in Helios' ray. The days stream by; with lips and cheeks grown pale On their indomitable breast we sail. There is a favouring wind; our idle bark Lingers, we raise no silk to meet the gale. The bank slips by, we gather not its fruit, We plant no seed, we irrigate no root True men have planted; and the tare and thorn Spring to rank weedy vigour; poisons shoot Into the overspreading foliage; So as days darken into weary age The flowers are fewer; the weeds are stronger born And hands are grown too feeble to assuage Their venom; then, the unutterable sea! Is she green-cinctured with the earlier tree Of Life? Do blossoms blow, or weeds create A foul rank undergrowth of misery? From the deep water of the bitterest brine Drowned children raise their arms; their lips combine To force a shriek; bid them go contemplate The cold philosophy of Zeno's<<1>> shrine? <<1. The Stoic. To be distinguished from the Eleatic and the Epicurean of the same name. He was born at Citium in Cyprus in 340 B.C. He preached GR:alpha-pi-alpha-theta-epsilon-iota-alpha, happiness in oneself independent of all circumstance, as the highest good.>> Nay, stretch a hand! Although their eagle clutch O'erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch To grieve for that: life is not so divine -- I count it little grief to part with such! {111B} We are wild serpents in a ring of fire; Our necks stretch out, our haggard eyes aspire In desperation; from the fearful line Our coils revulse in impotence and ire. An idle song it was the poet sang, A quavering note -- no brazen kettle's clang, But gentle, drooping, tearful. Nay, achieve! I can remember how the finish rang Clear, sharp, and loud; the harp is glad to die And give the clarion one note silver-high. It was too sweet for music, and I weave In vain the tattered woof of memory. Ashes and dust! Cold cinders dead! Our swords are rust; Our lives are fled Like dew on glass. In vain we lust; Our hopes are sped, Alas! alas! From heaven we are thrust, we have no more trust. Alas! Gold hairs and gray! Red lips and white! Warm hearts, cold clay! Bright day, dim night! Our spirits pass Like the hours away. We have no light, Alas! alas! We have no more day, we are fain to say Alas! In Love's a cure For Fortune's hate; In Love's a lure Shall laugh at Fate; We have toiled Death's knell; All streams are pure; {112A} We are new-create; All's well, all's well! We have God to endure, we are very sure All's well! In such wise rang the challenge unto Death With clear high eloquence and happy breath; So did a brave sad heart grow glad again And mock the riddle that the dead Sphinx saith. When I am dead, remember me for this That I bade workers work, and lovers kiss; Laughed with the Stoic at the dream of pain, And preached with Jesus<<1>> the evangel -- bliss. <<1. The allusion betrays Crowley's ignorance (at this time) of the results of modern criticism of the New Testament.>> When I am dead, think kindly. Frail my song? 'Twas the poor utterance of an eager tongue; I stutter in my rhyme? my heart was full Of greater longings, more divinely wrung By love and pity and regret and trust, High hope from heaven that God will be just, Spurn not the child because his mind was dull, Still less condemn him for his father's lust. Yet I think priests shall answer Him in vain: Their gospel of disgrace, disease, and pain, Shall move His heart of Love to such a wrath -- O Heart! Turn back and look on Love again! Behold, I have seen visions, and dreamed dreams! My verses eddy in slow wandering streams, Veer like the wind, and know no certain path -- Yet their worst shades re tinged with dawning beams! {112B} I have dreamed life a circle or a line, Called God, and Fate, and Chance, and Man, divine. I know not all I say, but through it all Mark the dim hint of ultimate sunshine! Remember me for this! And when I go To sleep the last sleep in the slumberous snow, Let child and man and woman yet recall One little moment that I loved you so! Let some high pinnacle my tombstone be, My epitaph the murmur of the sea, The clouds of heaven be fleeces for my pall, My unknown grave the cradle of the free. TWO SONNETS ON HEARING THE MUSIC OF BRAHMS AND TSCHAIKOWSKY. "To" C. G. LAMB. I. MY soul is aching with the sense of sound Whose angels trumpet in the angry air; Wild maenads with their fiery snakes enwound In the black waves of my abundant hair. Now hath my life a little respite found In the brief pauses exquisite and rare; In the strong chain of music I am bound, And all myself before myself lies bare. Drown me, oh, drown me in your fiery stream! Wing me new visions, fierce enchanting birds! Peace is less dear than this delirious fight! For all the glowing fragrance of a dream And all the sudden ecstasy of words Deluge my spirit with a lake of light {113A} II. The constant ripple of your long white hands, The soul-tormenting violin that speaks Truth, and enunciates all my soul seeks, That binds my love in its desirous bands, And clutches at my heart, until there stands No fibre yet unshaken, while it wreaks In one sharp song the agony of weeks, And all my soul and body understands. The music changes, and I know that here, In these new melodies, a tongue of fire Leaps at each waving of the silver spear; And all my sorrow dons delight's attire Because the gate of heaven is so near, And I have comprehended my desire. A VALENTINE (FEB. 14, 1897.) WHY did you smile when the summer was dying If it were not that the hours Might bring in winter, while sad winds are sighing, Some of Love's flowers? Now is beginning of spring, and I ask not Roses to flame o'er the lawn -- Who should know better that peonies bask not In the sun's dawn? Still, through the snow, it may be there is peeping Veiled from the kiss of the sun One lone white violet, daintily sleeping, Hard to be won. So with my fairy white maiden (you hear me?) Winter may yet pass away; Spring my arrive, (will it find your heart near me?) Summer may stay. {113B} Passionate roses I seek not, whose glories Now are too fierce for the spring, While the white flames of the frost flake that hoar is Flicker, on wing. Only a primrose, a violet laden With the pale perfume of dawn; Only a snowdrop, my delicate maiden; These have no thorn. Old-fashioned love, yet you feel it a fountain Springing for ever, most pure; Old-fashioned love, yet as adamant mountain Solid and sure. Yes, tender thoughts on your lips will be breaking By-and-by into a smile; Love, ere he springs up divine at his waking, Slumbers awhile. So, my kissed snowdrop, you took its white blossom Tenderly into your hand, Kissed it three times, wear it yet in your bosom -- I understand. ODE TO POESY. UNTO what likeness shall I liken thee, O moon-wrought maiden of my dewy sleep? For thou art Queen of Thoughts, and unto me Sister and Bride; the worn earth's echoes leap Because thy holy name is Poesy. Whereto art thou most like? Thou art a Dian, crescent o'er the sea That beats sonorous on the craggy shore, Or shakes the frail earth-dyke. So calm and still and far, that never more Thy silken song shall quiver through the land; Only by coral isle, by lonely strand Where no man dwells, thy voice re-wakens wild and grand. {114A} Thou art an Aphrodite. From the foam Of golden grape and red thou risest up Immaculate; thou hast an ebon comb Of shade and silence, and a jasper cup Wherein are mingled all desires. Thine home Is in the forest shade. Thy pale feet kiss the daffodils; they roam By moss-grown springs, and shake the bluebell tips. Each flower of the deep glade Has whispered kisses for thy listening lips, While Eos blushes in the sky, to find A fairer, queenlier maiden, and as kind To man and maid, whose eyes are lit by the same mind. Thou hast, as Pallas hath, a polished shield, Whose Gorgon-head is Hatred, and a sword Sharper than Love's. Thy wisdom is revealed To them who love, but thou hast aya abhorred The children of revenge; to them is sealed Thy book, so clear to me. Thy book where seven sins their sceptres wield, And seven sorrows track them, and one joy Cancels their infamy; Shame and regret are fused to an alloy, Whose drossy weight sinks down and is consumed, While o'er the ruddy metal is relumed A purer flame of piece, with knowledge now perfumed. Thy ways are very bitter. Not one rose Twines in the crown of thorns thy spouse must wear; There is no Lethe for the scoffs, the blows, Nor find they a Cyrenian<<1>> anywhere Amid the mob, to lift my cross, to share Its burden: not one friend Whose love were silence, whose affection knows To press my hand and close my dying eyes There, at the endless end. I am alone on earth, and from the skies {114B} Sometimes I seem so far -- and yet, thy kiss Re-quickens Hope; through aether's emptiness Thou guidest me to touch the Hand of Him who Is. <<1. Simon the Cyrenian, who bore the cross of Christ.>> Thou hadst a torch to lume my lips to song; Thou hast a cooler fountain for my thirst, Lest my young love should work thy fame a wrong; So the grape's veins in purple ardour burst, And opiates in bloomless gardens throng, And Life, a moon, wanes fast; But to thy garden richer buds belong And hardier flowers, and Love, a deathless sun, Flames eager to the last, And young desires in fleeter revels run, And life revives, and all the flowers rejoice, Bird and light butterfly have made their choice, Creation hymns its God with an united voice. There is a storm without. The hoary trees Stagger; the foam is angry on the sea: I know the secret mountains are at ease, And in the deepest ice-embroidery Where great men's spirits linger there is peace. Heed not the unquiet wind! Dawn's finger shall be raised, its wrath shall cease, The sun shall rouse us whom the tempest lulled, And thy poor poet's mind For respite by its own deep anguish dulled Shall wake again to watch the cruel day Drift slowly on its chill and wasted way With but thy smile to inspire some sad melodious lay. From whose rude caverns sweep these gusty wings That shake the steeples as they mock at God? Who reared the stallion wind? Whose foaling flings The billows starward? Whose the steeds fire-shod {115} That sweep throughout the world? What spearman sings The fearful chant of war That fires, and spurs, and maddens all the kings That rule o'er the earth, and air, and ocean? Whose hand excites the star To shatter into fiery flakes? No man, No petty god, but One who governs all, Slips the sun's leash, perceives the sparrow's fall, Too high for man to fear, too near for man to call. SONETS.<<1>> <<1. The virulence of these sonnets is excusable when it is known that their aim was to destroy the influence in Cambridge of a man who headed in that University a movement parallel to that which at Oxford was associated with the name of Oscar Wilde. They had their effect.>> TO THE AUTHOR OF THE PHRASE: "I AM NOT A GENTLEMAN AND I HAVE NO FRIENDS." I. SELF-DAMNED, the leprous moisture of thy veins Sickens the sunshine, and thine haggard eyes, Bleared with their own corrupting infamies, Glare through the charnel-house of earthly pains. Horrible as already in hell. There reigns The terror of the knowledge of the lies That mock thee; thy death's double destinies Clutch at the throat that sobs, and chokes, and strains. Self-damned on earth, live out thy tortured days, That men may look upon thy face, and see How vile a thing of woman born may be. Then, we are done with thee; go, go thy ways {115B} To other hells, thou damned of God hereafter, 'Mid men's contempt and hate and pitiless laughter. II. Lust, impotence, and knowledge of thy soul, And that foreknowledge, fill the fiery lake Of lava where thy lazar corpse shall break The burning surface to seek out a goal More horrible, unspeakable. The scroll Opens, and "coward, liar, monster" shake Those other names of "goat" and "swine" and "snake" Wherewith Hell's worms caress thee and control. Nay, but alone, intolerably alone, Alone, as here, thy carrion soul shall swelter, Yearning in vain for sleep, or death, or shelter; No release possible, no respite known! Self-damned, without a friend, thy eternal place Sweats through the painting of thy harlot's face. "At the hour of the eclipse," "Wednesday, Dec." 28. BESIDE THE RIVER. RAIN, rain in May. The river sadly flows, A sullen silver crossed with sable bars, Damp, gloomy, shivering, while reluctant stars, Between swart masses of thick clouds that close, Drive with drooped plumes their winged cars Toward sleep, the scythe of woes. Woes, woes in Spring. Ere summer deepeneth The pink of roses to a purpler tint; Ere ripening corn shafts back the sudden glint {116A} Of sunshine that brings healing with the breath Of western winds that sigh, they hint Of sleep, twin soul with death. Death, death ere dawn. The night is over dark; Trees are grown terrible; the shadows wan Make shudder all the tense desires of man; No gleam of moonlight bears the golden mark Of sunny lips, nor shines upon Our sleep -- Love's birchen bark. Love, love to-night. To-night is all we know, Is all our care; lips joined to lips we lie, Tender hands touching, hearts in tune to die, With willing kiss reluctant to let go; So sweet love's last enduring sigh For sleep, so sure, so slow. Sleep, sleep to-night. Our arms are intertwined; Breath desires breath and hand imprisons hand; Breezes cool faces, rosy with the brand Of long sweet kisses; sun shall dawn and find Two lovers who have passed the land Of sleep -- and found Death kind. MAN'S HOPE. HERE fades the last red glimmer of the sun; Ere day is night, when on the glittering bar The waves are foaming rubies, and afar Streaks of red water, gold on the horizon, On summer ripples rhythmically run; Ere dusk is weaned, there sails on silver car From the expectant East, the evening Star; And all the threads of sorrow are unspun. {116B} So He who ordered this shall still work thus, And ere life's lamp shall flicker into death, And Time lose all his empire over us, A gleam of Hope, of Knowledge, shall arise, A star to silver o'er Death's glooming skies, And gladden the last labouring torch of breath. SONNET. FOR G. F. KELY'S DRAWING OF AN HERMAPHRODITE. O BODY pale and beautiful with sin! O breasts with venom swollen by the snakes Of passion, whose cold slaver slimes and slakes Thy soul-consuming fevers that within Thy heart the fires of hell on earth begin! O heart whose yearning after truth forsakes The law of love! O heart whose ocean breaks In sterile foam against some golden skin! O thou whose body is one perfect prayer, One long regret, one agony of shame, Lost in the fragrance, speeding, subtle and rare, Up to the sky, an avenue of flame! My soul, thy body, in the same sin curled, With vivid lust annihilate the world. A WOODLAND IDYLL. FRESH breath from the woodland blows sweet O'er the flowery path we are roaming, On the dimples of light lover's feet In the mystical charm of the gloaming, Yvonne! On the buds that blush bright as we meet In the mystical charm of the gloaming! {117A} A tear for the stars of the night, And a smile for the avenue shady, A kiss for the eyelashes bright, And a blush for the cheek of my lady, Yvonne! A laugh for the moon and her spite, And a blush for the cheek of my lady! We'll tread where the daffodils shake And the primrose smiles up through her weeping, Where the daisies dip down to the lake, Where the wonderful thrushes are sleeping, Yvonne! By the marge of the maze of the brake Where the wonderful thrushes are sleeping. Where the brook trickles clear to the eye Below dew-spangled frondlets of willow We will wander to find by-and-by The sward of our delicate pillow, Yvonne! Where the mosses so lusciously lie For the sward of our delicate pillow. For a bride fairer far than the flower Is the couch spread by fingers of even, The blossom of apples for bower, Its roof-tree the sapphires of heaven, Yvonne! For the bride of the mystical hour, Its roof-tree the sapphires of heaven! With songsters the heavy sweet air Is trembling and sighing and sobbing, With meteors magically fair The sky is deliciously throbbing, Yvonne! With spledour and subtlety rare The sky is deliciously throbbing. Sweet bride to fond arms with a sigh, Strong arms to fond bosom, are curling; The winds breathe more musically by; The moon has a rosier pearling, Yvonne! The stars grow more dim in the sky, The moon has a rosier pearling. {117B} So, birds, are you shy to awake Your voices to laughter-tuned numbers? So, sun, do you tremble to shake The dews of the night from our slumbers? Yvonne! So, breeze, to reluctant to take The dews of the night from our slumbers? Light breaks, and the breezes caress Cool limbs and sot eyes and fair faces; The nightingales carol to bless The dawn of our maiden embraces, Yvonne! The woods wear a lovelier dress In the dawn of our maiden embraces! PERDURABO.<<1>> <<1. "I shall endure to the end." This was the mystic title taken by Crowley at his first initiation.>> EXILE from humankind! The snow's fresh flakes Are warmer than men's hearts. my mind is wrought Into dark shapes of solitary thought That loves and sympathises, but awakes No answering love or pity. What a pang Hath this strange solitude to aggravate The self-abasement and the blows of Fate! No snake of hell hath so severe a fang! I am not lower than all men -- I feel Too keenly. Yet my place is not above, Though I have this -- unalterable Love In every fibre. I am crucified Apart on a lone burning crag of steel, Tortured, cast out; and yet -- I shall abide. ON GARRET HOSTEL BRIDGE.<<1>> <<1. A bridge on the "Backs" at Cambridge.>> HERE in the evening curl white mists and wreathe in their vapour All the gray spires of stone, all the immobile towers; {118A} Here in the twilight gloom dim trees and sleepier rivers, Here where the bridge is thrown over the amber stream. Chill is the ray that steals from the moon to the stream that whispers Secret tales of source, songs of its fountain-head. Here do I stand in the dusk; like spectres mournfully moving Wisps of the cloud-wreaths form, dissipate into the mist, Wrap me in shrouds of gray, chill me and make me shiver, Not with the Night alone, not with the sound of her wing, Yet with a sense of something vague and unearthly stalking (Step after step as I move) me, to annul me, quell Hope and desire and life, bid light die under my eyelids, Bid the strong heart despair, quench the desire of Heaven. So I shudder a little; and my heart goes out to the mountain, Rock upon rock for a crown, snow like an ermine robe; Thunder and lightning free fashioned for speech and seeing, Pinnacles royal and steep, queen of the arduous breast! Ye on whose icy bosom, passionate, at the sunrise, Ye in whose wind-swept hollows, lulled in the moonrise clear, Often and oft I struggled, a child with an angry mother, Often and oft I slept, maid in a lover's arms. Back to ye, back, wild towers, from this flat and desolate fenland, Back to ye yet will I flee, swallow on wing to the south; Move in your purple cloud-banks and leap your far-swelling torrents, Bathe in the pools below, laugh with the winds above, {118B} Battle and strive and climb in the teeth of the glad wild weather, Flash on the slopes of ice, dance on the spires of rock, Run like a glad young panther over the stony high-lands, Shout with the joy of living, race to the rugged cairn, Feel the breath of your freedom burn in my veins, and Freedom! Freedom! echoes adown cliff and precipitous ghyll. Down by the cold gray lake the sun descends from his hunting, Shadow and silence steals over the frozen fells. Oh, to the there, my heart! And the vesper bells awaken; Colleges call their children; Lakeland fades from the sight. Only the sad slow Cam like a sire with age grown heavy Wearily moves to the sea, to quicken to life at last. Blithelier I depart, to a sea of sunnier kindness; Hours of waiting are past; I re-quicken to love. ASTRAY IN HER PATHS.<<1>> <<1. This satirical title is from Proverbs vii. 25. A poet's nature is to refine to purest gold even the sordidest of dross.>> COPENHAGEN, "January," '97. I FEEL thee shudder, clinging to my arm, Before the battlements of the salt sea, Black billows tipped with phosphorescent light, Towering from where we stand to yonder shore That is no earthly shore, but guards the coast Of that which is from that which is to be; Wherefore it kindles no evasive fire Nor blazes through the night, but lies forgotten Gray in the twilight; never a star is out {119A} To light the broad horizon; only here Behind us cluster lamps, and busy sounds Of men proclaim a city; but to us They are not here; for we, because we love, Are not of earth, but, as the immortals, stand With eyes immutable; our souls are fed On a strange new nepenthe from the cup Of the vast firmament. Nor do we dream, Nor think we aught of the transient world, But are absorbed in our own deity: And our clear eyes reflect -- (who dares to gaze Shall see an die!) -- the changeless empyrean Eternity, the concentrated void Of space, for being the centre of all things, Time is to us the Now, and Space the Here; From us all Matter radiates, is a part Of our own thoughts and souls; because we love. Thou shudderest, clinging to me; though the night Jewels her empire with the frosty crown Of thousand-twinkling stars, whose hoary crests Burn where light touches them, with diamond points Of infinite far fire, save where the sea Is ebony with sleep, and though the wind Pierces the marrow, since it is the word Of the Almighty, and cuts through the air That may not stay its fury, with a cold Nipping and chill, it is not in the wind; Nor though the thunder broke, or flashed the fire From all the circle of eternity, Were that the reason; for thou shudderest To hear the Voice of Love; it is no voice That men may hear, but an intensest rich Silence, that silence when man waits to hear Some faint vibration in the smitten air, And, if he hear not, die; but we who love Are beyond death, and therefore may commune In that still tongue; it is the only speech And song of stars and sun; nor is it marred By one dissentient tremor of the air That girds the earth, but in lone aether spreads {119B} Its song. But now I turn to thee, whose eyes Blaze on me with such look as flesh and blood May never see and live; for so it burns Into the innest being of the spirit And stains its vital essence with a brand Of fire that shall not change; and shuddering I Gaze back, spirit to spirit, with the like Insatiable desire, that never quenched, Nor lessened by sublime satiety, But rather crescent, hotter with the flame Of its own burning, that consumes it not, Because it is the pure white flame of God. I shudder, holding thee to me; thy gaze Is still on me; a thousand years have passed, And yet a thousand thousand; years they are As men count years, and yet we stand and gaze With touching hands and lips immutable As mortals stand a moment; ... The universe is One: One Soul, One Spirit, One Flame, One infinite God, One infinite Love. SONNET TO CLYTIE. CLYTE, beyond all praise, thou goodliest Of queens, thou royal woman, crowned with tears, That could not move the dull stars from their spheres To kiss thee. For the sun would fainter rest In the gold chambers of the glowing west Than answer thy love, thine, whose soul endears All souls but his, whose slow desire fears The fierce embraces of thine olive breast. O Queen, sun-lover, we are wed with thee In changeless love, in passion for a fire Whose lips bind all men in their bitter spell; A love whose first caress, hard won, would be The final dissolution of desire, A flame to shrivel us with fire of hell. {120A} A VALENTINE, '98.<<1>> <<1. Nothing more; be it well remembered! -- A.C.>> NOW on the land the woods are green; A wild bird's note Shrills till the air trembles between His beak and throat. And up through blue and gold and black The shivering sound Rushes; no echo murmurs back From sky or ground. In the loud agony of song The moon is still; The wind drops down the shore along; Night hath her will. The bird becomes a dancing flame In leaf and bower. The forest trembles; loves reclaim Their own still hour. The dawn is here, and on the sands Where sun first flames, I gather lilies from all lands Of sad sweet names. The Lesbian lily is of white Stained through with blood, Swayed with the stream, a wayward light Upon the flood. The Spartan lily is of blue, With green leaves fresh; Apollo glints his crimson through The azure mesh. The English lily is of white, All white and clean; There plays a tender flame of light Her flowers between. The English lily is a bloom To cold and sweet; One might say -- in the twilight gloom A maiden's feet. {120B} Silent and slim and delicate The flower shall spring, Till there be born immaculate A fair new thing. Tall is the mother-lily, still By faint winds swayed; Tender and pure, without a will -- An English maid. No tree of poison, at whose feet All men lie dead; No well of death, whose waters sweet Are tinged with red. No hideous impassioned queen For whom love dies; No warm imperious Messaline That slew with sighs. Fiercer desires may cast away All things most good; A people may forget to-day Their motherhood. She will remain, unshaken yet By storm and sun; She will remain, when years forget That fierier one. A race of clean strong men shall spring From her pure life. Men shall be happy; bards shall sing The English wife. And thou, forget thou that my mouth Has ever clung To flame of hell; that of the south The songs I sung. Forget that I have trampled flowers, And worn the crown Of thorns of roses in the hours So long dropped drown. Forget, O white-faced maid, that I Have dallied long In classic bowers and mystery Of classic song. {121A} Eros and Aphrodite now I can forget, Placing upon thy maiden brow Love's coronet. Wake from the innocent dear sleep Of childhood's life: An English maiden must not weep To be a wife. So shall out love bridge space, and bring The tender breath Of sun and moon and stars that sing To gladden Death. I see your cheek grow pale and cold, Then flush above. Kiss me; I know that I behold The birth of Love. PENELOPE. ULYSSES 'scaped the sorceries of that queen That turned to swine his goodly company, And came with sails broad-burgeoning and clean Over the ripples of his native sea. Yet for the shores his eyes had lately seen, He kept a half-regretful memory; And thought, when all the flower-strewn ways were green, "Better love Circe than Penelope!" Yes. A good woman's love will forge a chain To break the spirit of the bravest Greek; While with an harlot one may leap again Free as the waters of the western main, And turn with no heart-pang the vessel's beak Out to the oceans that all seamen seek. {121B} A SONNET OF BLASPHEMY. EXALTED over earth, from hell arisen, There sits a woman, ruddy with the flame Of men's blood spilt, and her uncleanly shame, And the thrice-venomous vomit of her prison. She sits as one long dead: infernal calm, Chill hatred, wrap her in their poisonous cold. She careth not, but doth disdainly hold Three scourges for man's soul, that know no balm They know not any cure. The first is Life, A well of poison. Sowing dust and dung Over men's hearts, the second scourge, above All shameful deeds, is Lying, from whose tongue Drops Envy, wed with Hatred, to sow Strife. These twain are bitter; but the last is Love. THE RAPE OF DEATH. ARGUMENT. -- Sir Godfrey, a knight of Normandy, leapeth into a light vessel of Jarl Hungard, while they sit at feast, and, slaying the crew, seeketh the high seas with the Lady Thurla. He slayeth the swiftest pursuers, and escapeth in a great tempest; which on the second day abating, he maketh the inside of a bar, and must await the breeze. Jarl Hungard coming with his men and two dragons, is wrecked, but a knave shooting, slayeth the Lady Thurla. Sir Godfrey forthwith sinketh the other dragon, and saileth forth into the ocean, and is not heard of ever after.<> PALE vapours like phantoms on the sea, The tide swells slumberous beneath our keel, The pulses of our canvas fail; and we {122A} No faint sweet summons from the south wind feel: The crimson waters of the west are pale, And bloodless arrows like a stream of steel Flash from the moon, that rises where the gale Only a day past raged; the clouds are lost In pleasant rains that ripple on the sail. The sudden fascination of the frost Touches the heavy canvas; now there form Reluctant crystals, and the vessel, tossed The wild night through in the devouring storm, Glistens with dew made sharp and bright with cold. For no north wind may drive us to the warm Long-looked-for lands where day, with plumes of gold, Flaps like a lazy eagle in the air; Where night, a bird of prey divinely bold, Wings through the sky, intangible but fair, And pale with subtle passion; and no wind Turns our prow southward, till the canvas bear No more up into it, but still behind Follow like flame, and lead our love along Into the valleys of the ocean, blind, But seeing all the world awake with song Of many lyres and lutes and reeds of straw, And all the rivers musical that throng In bright assemblage of unchanging law, Like many flute-players; and seeing this, (That all the mountains looked upon and saw) The sweetness of the savour of a kiss, And all its perfume wafter to the sky. Nay, but no wind will drive our fortalice {122B} (So strong against the sun) to where they ply Those pallid wings, or turn our vessel's beak With utmost fury to the North, to dye Our prows with seaweed, such as wise men seek For cleansing of their altars with slow blood Wrenched from the long dark leaves, with fingers weak With age and toil; to stem the restless flood That boils between the islands; to attain The ultimate ice, where some calm hero stood And looked one last time for a sail in vain, And looking upward not in vain, lay down And died, to pass where cold and any pain Are not. So still the night is, like the crown Most white of the high God that glittereth! The stars surround the moon, and Nereids drown Their rippled tresses in her golden breath. Let us keep watch, my true love, caught at last Between my hands, and not remember death. Only bethink us of the daylight past, The long chase oversea, the storm, the speed Whereby we ran before the leaping blast, And left the swift pursuers at our need With one wrecked dragon and one shattered; yea! And on their swiftest many warriors bleed, Having beheld, above the gray seaway Between them and the sun, my sword arise, Like the first dagger flashing for the day, My sword, that darts among them serpentwise -- And all their warriors fell back a space, And all the air rang out with sudden cries, {123A} Seeing the death and fury of my face, And feeling the long sword sweep out and kill, Till there was won the slippery path, the place. Whence I might sever the white cords, and fill The ship with tangled wreckage of the sail. All this I did, and bore the blade of ill Back, dripping blood, to thee most firm and pale Who held our rudder, all alone, and stood Fierce and triumphant in the rising gale, Bent to my sword, and kissed the stinging blood, While the good ship leapt free upon the deep, And felt the feet of the resistless flood Run, and the fervour of the billows sweep Under our keel -- and we were clean away, Laughing to seethe foamheads sough and sleep, As we kept pace with ocean all the day And one long night of toil; until the sun Lit on these cliffs his morning beams that play With our sails rent and rifted white, and run Like summer lightning all about the deck, And laugh upon the work my sword had done When the feast turned to death for us; we reck Nothing to-night of all that past despair: Only to-night I watch your curving neck, And play with all the kisses of your hair, And feel your weight, as if you were to be Always and always -- O my queen, how rare {123B} Your lips' perfume; like lilies on the sea Your white breasts glimmer; let us wait awhile. There is no breeze to drive us down to lee On the cold rocks of yonder icy isle, And your sire's passion must forget the chase As I forget, the moment that you smile, And sea and sky are brighter for your face -- I hear the sound of many oars; perhance Your father's, but within this iron place The heavy dragons will not dare advance Where our light vessel barely skimmed the rock: Their anger may grow cool, the while they dance Like fools before the bard we crossed, and mock Pursuit. Behold! one dragon strikes the reef, Breaks in the midst before the dreadful shock, Shattered and stricken by the rousing sheaf Of wild intolerable foam that breaks Full on their stem: she sinks. One fierce foul thief Springs desperate upon her poop; she shakes; He strings a sudden arrow. Ocean sweeps Over his cursed craft. The arrow takes The straight swift road -- Ah God! -- to her who sleeps, To her bright bosom as at peace she lies. She is dead quickly, and the ocean keeps The secret of my sorrow from her eyes. I will not weep; I cannot weep; I turn And watch the sail fill with the wind that sighs {124A} A little for pure pity -- I discern The cowards shake with fear; the vessel springs Light to the breezes, as the golden erne That seeks a prey on its impetuous wings; The reef is past; I crash upon the foe, And all the fury of my weapon rings On armour temperless; the waters flow Through the dark rent within the side; I leap Back to my dead love; back, desiring so That they had killed me, for I cannot weep. They killed her, and a mist of blood consumes My sight; they killed my lover in her sleep. The breeze has freshened, and the water fumes, The vessel races on beneath the sky; Beneath her bows the eager billow spumes. I wonder whither, and I wonder why. No ray of light this sea of blood illumes. I wonder whether God will let me die. IN THE WOODS WITH SHELLEY. SING, happy nightingale, sing; Past is the season of weeping; Birds in the wood are on wing, Lambs in the meadow are leaping. Can there be any delight still in the buttercups sleeping? Dawn, paler daffodil, dawn; Smile, for the winter is over; Sunlight makes golden the lawn, Spring comes and kisses the clover; All the wild woodlands await poet and songster and lover. {124B} Linger, dew, linger and gem All the fresh flowers in the garland; Blossom, leaf, bud and green stem Flash with your light to some far land, Where men shall wonder if you be not a newly-born starland. Ah! the sweet scents of the woods! Ah! the sweet sounds of the heaven! Sights of impetuous floods, Foam like the daisy at even, Folding o'er passionate gold petals that sunrise had riven! See, like my life is the stream Now its desire is grown quiet; Life was a passionate dream Once, where light fancy ran riot, Now, ere youth fades, flows in peace past woody bank and green eyot. Highest, white heather and rock, Mountain and pine, with young laughter, Breezes that murmur and mock Duller delights to come after, Wild as a swallow that dives whither the sea wind would waft her. Lower, an ocean of flowers, Trees that are warmer and leafier, Starrier, sunnier hours Spurning the stain of all grief here, Bringing a quiet delight to us, beyond our belief, here. Lastly, the uttermost sea, Starred with flakes of spray sunlit, Blue as its caverns that be Crystal, resplendent, yet unlit; So like a mother receives the kiss of the dainty-lip runlet. Here the green moss is my seat, Beech is a canopy o`er me, Calm and content the retreat; Man, my worst foe, cannot bore me; Life is a closed book behind -- Shelley an open before me. {125A} Shelley's own birds are above Close to me (why should they fear me?) May I believe it -- that love Brings his bright spirit so near me That, should I whisper one word -- Shelley's swift spirit would hear me. Heaven is not very far; Soul unto soul may be calling When a swift meteor star Through the quick vista is falling. Loose but your soul -- shall its wings find the white way so appalling? Heaven, as I understand, Nearer than some folk would make it; God -- should you stretch our a hand, Who can be quicker to take it? Then you have pacted an oath -- judge you if He will forsake it! I have had hope in the spring -- Trust that the God who has given Flowers, and the thrushes that sing Dawnwards all night, and at even Year after year, will be true now we are speaking of heaven. Breezes caress me and creep Over the world to admire it; Sweet air shall sigh me to sleep, Softly my lips shall respire it, Lying half-closed with a kiss ready for who shall desire it. A VISION UPON USHBA.<<1>> <<1. A mountain in the Caucasus. Crowley never visited this district.>> HERE in the wild Caucasian night, The sleepless years Seem to pass by in garments white, Made white with tears, A pageant of intolerable light Across the sombre spheres, And, mingling with the tumult of the morn, Methought a single rose of blood was born. {125B} Far on the iron peaks a voice Crystal and cold, Sharper than sounds the aurochs'<<1>> choice O'er wood and wold, A summons as of angels that rejoice, A paean glad and bold, A mighty shout of infinite acclaim Shrieks through the sky some dread forgotten Name. <<1. The extinct Wild Bull of Europe. {WEH Note: No longer quite extinct; breed back from mixed stock after the time of this poem. The same is true of some breeds of wild horses.}>> Trembles the demon on his perch Of crags ice-bound; Tremble near forest and far church At that quick sound; The silver arrows that bedeck the birch Shiver along the ground: Priest, fiend, and harpy answer to the call, And hasten to their ghastly festival. There in the vale below my feet I see the crew Gather, blaspheming God, and greet Their shame anew. A feast is spread of some unholy meat; Oftimes there murmurs through Their horrid ranks a cry of pain, as God Bids them keep memory of His iron rod. The vale is black with priests. They fight, Wild beasts, for food, The orphan's gold, the widow's right, The virgin's snood. All in their maws are crammed within the night That hides their chosen wood, Where through the blackness sounds the sickening noise Of cannibals that gloat on monstrous joys. The valley steams with slaughter. Here Shall the pure snow The bloody reek of murder rear To crush the foe? In Titan fury shall the rocks spring clear, And smite the fiends below? Shall poisonous wind and avalanche combine To wreck swift justice, human and divine? {126A} Priests thrive on poison. Carrion Their eager teeth Tear, till the sacramental sun Its sword unsheath, And bid their horrid carnival be done, And smite beneath In their cold gasping valleys, and bid light Break the battalions of the angry night. That sword that smote from Heaven was so keen, Its silver blade No angel's sight, no fairy's eye hath seen, No tender maid With subtle insight may behold its sheen With light inlaid; But God, who forged it, breathed upon its point, And His pure unction did the hilt anoint. Within the poet's hand he laid the sword: With reverent ear The poet listened to His word Cleansed through of fear. The brightness of the glory of the Lord Grew adamant, a spear! And when he took the flachion in his hand Lo! kings and princes bowed to his command. Then shall the flag of England flaunt In peaceful might, The sceptred isle of dying Gaunt<<1>> Shall rule by right. The sons of England shall bid Hell avaunt And priest and harlot smite. Then all the forces of the earth shall be Untamable, a shield of Liberty. <<1. See "Richard II.," ii. I.>> Freedom shall burgeon like a rose, While in the sky A new white sun with ardour glows On liberty. Men shall sing merrily at work as those Who fear no more to die -- Ay! and who fear no more at last to live Since man can love and worship and forgive. {126B} Then on these heights of Caucasus A fire shall dwell, Pure as the dawn, and odorous Of bud and bell; A flower of fire, a flame from heaven to us All triumph to foretell, A glory of unspeakable delight, A flower like lightning, adamant and white. There needs no more or sun or sea Or any light; On golden wheels Eternity Revolves in Night. The island peoples are too proud and free And full of might To care for time or space, but glorious wend A royal path of flowers to the end. I pray thee, God, to weapon me With this keen fire, That I may set this people free As my desire; That the white lilies of our liberty Grow on Life's crags still higher, Till on the loftiest peaks their blossom flower, The rampart of a people and their power. ELEGY, "August" 27"th," 1898.<<1>> <<1. When Dr. John Hopkinson and three of his children perished on the Petite Dent de Veisivi.>> SO have the days departed, as the leaves Smitten by wrath of Autumn blast; So the year, fallen from delight, still grieves Over the happy past. The year of barren summer, when the wind Blew from the south unlooked-for snow, The year when Collon,<<1>> desolate and blind, Gloomed on the vale below, <<1. A mountain at the head of the Val d'Herens.>> When logs of pinewood lit the little room, And friendship ventured in to sit Beside their blaze, to listen in the gloom To wisdom and to wit; {127A} When we discussed our hopes, and told the stories Of happy climbing days gone by; The stubborn battle with the cliffs, the glories Of the blue Alpine sky. The keen delight of paths untrodden yet, And new steep ice and rocky ways Too dangerous and splendid to forget. Those dear strong happy days! And now what happier fate to your brave souls Than so to strive and fighting fall? Think you that He who sees you, and controls, Did not devise it all? The mountains that you loved have taken you, And we who love you will not weep. Shall we begrudge? Your last look saw sky blue; You will be glad to sleep. Your pure names (thrice renowned, yours fresh with youth And full of promise) shall be kept Still in our hearts for monuments of truth, As if you had not slept. EPILOGUE. HORACE, in the fruitful Sabine country, Where the wheat and vine are most abundant, Where the olive ripens in the sunshine, Where the streams are voiced with Dian's whispers, Lived in quiet, with a woman's passion To inspire his lute and bring contentment In the gray still days of early winter. I, remote from cities, like the poet, {127B} Tune my lesser lyre with other fingers, Yet am not a whit the less beloved. Unto me the stars are never silent, Nor do sea and storm deny their music, Nor do flower and breeze refuse their kisses: So my soul is flooded with their magic; So my love completes the joy of living. I am like the earth, to whom there gather Rays of gold to bid the gray horizon Melt, recede, and brighten into azure. Let me sing, O holy one, Apollo! Sing as Horace sang, and flood the ocean With a living ecstasy of music Till the whole creation echo, echo, Echo till the tune dissolve the heavens? {128A} Still the song lingers; lamely from the lute string Steals a breath of melody; the forest Treasures in its glades the sighs I utter. Yet may I be happy, storing honey Lover's lips hold, gathering the sunlight Eyes and hair have kept for me, delighting In the bells far-off, in yonder thrushes, In the tawny songster of the forest, In the stream's song, all the words of passion, Echoes of the deeper words unspoken In thy breast and mine, O heart of silence! Will they pierce one day to other nations Clear and strong and triumphing? It may be. Then we shall not envy you, my Horace! {128 {{full page below} JEZEBEL; AND OTHER TRAGIC POEMS. BY COUNT VLADIMIR SVAREFF.<<1>> Edited, with an Introduction and Epilogue, by ALEISTER CROWLEY. 1899. <<1. Under this name the poet lay perdu in the heart of London, prosecuting, under circumstances of romantic and savage interest, his first occult studies.>> {col. start below} DEDICACE. LONDRES, "Juin" 1898. PEINTRE, que ton amour inspire Des chansons toujours plus sublimes, Malgre qu'aujourd'hui ma mauvaise lyre Chante l'abime. Nos espoirs, nos desirs nous rendent Des amis chers aux dieux; Demain, ma voix, plus haute et plus profonde, Chante les cieux. A GERALD.<<1>> <<1. Gerald Kelly, the eminent painter.>> PERDITA. LIKE leaves that fall before the sullen wind At summer's parting kiss and autumn's call, Lost thoughts fly half-forgotten from my mind, Like leaves that fall. They shall not come again; the wintry pall Of consciousness clouds o'er them; they shall find No rest, no hope, no tear, no funeral. Into the night, despairing, bleeding, blind, They pass, nor know their former place at all, Lost to my soul, to God, to all mankind, Like leaves that fall. {129A} JEZEBEL. PART I. A LION'S mane, a leopard's skin Across my dusty shoulders thrown; A swart fierce face, with eyes where sin Lurks like a serpent by a stone. A man driven forth by lust to seek Rest from himself on Carmel's peak. A prophet<<1>> with wild hair behind, Streaming in fiery clusters! Yea, Tangled with vehemence of the wind, And knotted with the tears that slay; And all my face parched up and dried, And all my body crucified. <<1. Not Elijah, as the sequel shows. Foolish contemporary reviews, however, made this silly blunder.>> Ofttimes the Spirit of the Lord Descends and floods me with his breath; My words are fashioned as a sword, My voice is like the voice of death. The thunder of the Spirit's wings Brings terror to the hearts of kings. Anon, and I am driven out In desert places by desire; My mouth is salt and dry; I doubt If hell hath such another fire; If God's damnation can devise A lust to match these agonies. {129B} The desert wind my body burns, The voice of flesh consumes my soul; My body towards the city turns, My spirit seeks its fierier goal; In wells of heaven to quench my thirst, And take God's hand among the first. I conquered self; I grew at last A prophet chosen of the Lord; I blew the trumpet's iron blast That called on Zimri Omri's sword; My voice inflamed the fiery steel That was to smite upon Jezreel. And now, I haste from yonder sands, With fervour filled, to say God's doom To Ahab of the bloody hands, The spoiler of his father's tomb, The slayer of the vineyard king. God's judgment, and his fate, I bring. The city gleams afar,; I see Samarina's white walls on high; The mountains echo back to me The vengeful murmur of the sky; All heaven and earth on me attend To prophesy the tyrant's end. The gates are close because of night Whose heavy breath infects the air; The dog-star gleams, a devilish light: I thought I saw behind me glare The eyes of fiends. I thought I heard An evil laugh, a mocking word. The gates swing open at the Name, Without a warder roused from sleep; I pass, with face of burning flame, That is not quenched, although I weep. (For even my tears are tears of fire, For loathing, madness, and desire.) Ah God! the traps for fervent feet! The morrow beaconed, and I came By where the golden groves of wheat In summer glories fiercely flame; To those white courts, by princes trod, Where Ahab sat, and mocked at God. {130A} Where Ahab sat: -- but lo! I saw No king, no tyrant to be curst; But she, who filled me with blind awe, She, for whose blood my thin veins thirst; The blossom of a painted mouth And bare breasts tinctured with the south. For lo! the harlot Jezebel! Her hands dropped perfume, and her tongue (A flame from the dark heart of hell, The ivory-barred mouth, that stung With unimaginable pangs) Shot out at me, and Hell fixed gangs. Her purple robes, her royal crown, The jewelled girdle of her waist, Her feet with murder splashed, and brown