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| The Buddhist / Aleister Crowley |
There never was a face as fair
as yours,
A heart as true,
a love as pure and keen.
These things edure,
if anything endures.
But, in this jungle,
what high heaven immures
Us in its silence,
the supreme serene
Crowning the dagoba,
what destined die
Rings on the table,
what resistless dart
Strike me I love you;
can you satisfy
The hunger of my heart!
Nay; not in love,
or faith, or hope is hidden
The drug that heals my life;
I know too well
How all things lawful,
and all things forbidden
Alike disclose no pearl
upon the midden,
Offer no key to unlock the gate of Hell.
There is no escape from
the eternal round,
No hope in love, or victory, or art.
There is no plumb-line long
enough to sound
The abysses of my heart!
There no dawn breaks;
no sunlight penetrates
Its blackness; no moon shines,
nor any star.
For its own horror
of itself creates
Malignant fate from
all benignant fates,
Of its own spite drives its own angel afar.
Nay; this is the great
import of the curse
That the whole world is sick,
and not a part.
Conterminous with its own universe
the horror of my heart!
The Buddhist / Aleister Crowley
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