THE SIBYL 
 
Written in the Land of Nod (chez Homer).* 
 
CROUCHED o’er the tripod the pale priestess moans 
Ambiguous destiny, divided fate. 
Sibylline oracles of woe create 
Roars as of beasts, majestic monotones 
Of wind, strong cries of elemental thrones, 
All sounds of mystery of the Pythian state ! 
O woman without change or joy or date 
I await thy oracle as the Delphian stone’s ! 
 
So thou to me :  best lover of . . . 
Thou who art love and pity and clean art, 
Wearing a rosebud on thy blood-bright heart, 
A lily on thy brows ; I comprehend 
Thy mystic utterance :  read its rune aright : 
For . . . , love ; for Aleister, delight. 
 
* So the schoolboy :  Nemo sapit omnibus horis—no one is safe in an 
omnibus with ladies. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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