THE EQUINOX
Come! I am writhing with despair
Like a snake taken in a snare,
Moaning thy mystical name
Till my tongue is torn and bleeding!
Have I not gilded my nails
And painted my lips with vermilion ?
Yea! thou art I; the deed awakes:
Thy lightning strikes, thy thunder breaks
Wild as the bride that wails
In the bridegroom’s plumed pavilion !
ALEISTER CROWLEY.
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