The World’s Tragedy

PROEM. XLIII A pox on all these yammering Yahoos ! My healthy sperm begets the Son of God Winged with the dawn and with the star-stream shod ! Not on your purulence and ichorous itch, O English girl, half baby and half bitch, But on the glorious body and soul of her Of whom I am the Lord and worshipper, The brave gay cleanly maiden whose embrace Flushes with shameless fervour the fair face, Fills the whole leaping heaven with the light Till all the world is drunken with delight. You with your own authentic filth defiled Robbed Keats of life, and Shelley of his child, Corrupted Swinburne to your foul disease, Denied Blake bread — are you fed full on these ? You hate the wise, true, beautiful, and holy : — Dogs ! is there nothing you can do to Crowley ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Therefore I see and speak, who would be dumb And blind : but Thou dost call. Master, I come, ALEISTER CROWLEY.