The Winged Beetle

THE OPIUM-SMOKER 167 Subtle and sombre the eagre of sleep Rolls up the bay to envelope the steep. What then is left, what is left—but to weep ? Maybe the stridency purpled of Pan Leads at the last to the light of His plan. Maybe his work is the wealth of a man ! VIII Bring me the tablets, the stylus of jade ! Lend me thy light, O compassionate maid ! Soul of the master, O come to mine aid ! Make me the man of the marvellous mission ! Sharpen the sword of veridical vision Cut me the knot of the mighty magician ! Here I devote me (record me the vow) Unto the terrible task of the Tao. Soul of the master, the writer be thou ! Bring me the tablets and stylus ! Have done ! Guard me the doors ; they are open to none, Not to the Emperor ! I have begun.