Collected Works (Vol. I)

WHEAT AND WINE 49 Yet such a flower sprang here Within this soul of mine, WHEAT AND WINE. When foemen bade good cheer To foemen, grew one clear CLEAR, deep, and blue, the sky Concept, ideal, divine, Is silvered by the morn, Ofa god of light and laughter, of a god of And where the dewdrop’s eye Catches its brilliancy Strange lights and hues are horn: I have seen twelve colours hover on a single spray of thorn. There is a great grey tower! Cut clear against the deep ; In the sun’s wakening hour I think it has the power To touch the soul of sleep With its tender thought, and bid me to awake for joy—and weep. This night I am earlier. No drowsy thoughts drew nigh At eve to make demur That I be minister To Cynthia maidenly : All night I have watched her sail through a black and silver sky. Within my soul there fight Two full and urgent streams, Work’s woe and dream’s delight : Like snow and sun they smite, Days battle hard with dreams : On a world of misty beauty the clearly beams, Aurora So labour fought with pride, And love with idleness, My soul was torn and tried With the impassioned tide Of storm and deathly stress— I had never dreamed a lily should arise amid the press. 'St. John’s Chapel, Cambridge, which Crowley's rooms in 16 St, John’s Street over- looked, It was his habit to work from mid- night to dawn, when he could no Jonger be disturbed by visits from friends, VOL. 1. wheat and wine. Work on, strong mind, devise The outer life aright ! Iream, subtle soul, and arise To noblest litanies That pierce the mask of night— Ina man work lifts his eyelids, but his dreams lend eyes their light. So dreams and days are wed, And soul and body lie Ambrosial in Love's bed. See, heaven with stars is spread-— So glad of life am I If an angel came to call me I am sure I would not die. A RONDEL. THe wail of the wind in the desolate land Lifts voice where the heaven lies pallid and blind ; Sweeps over the hills from the sea and the sand The wail of the wind. The earth gives a bleak echo back, and behind Lurk sorrows and sins in the grasp of a hand, And love and despair are the lords of man- kind. The mountains are steadfast; immutably grand, Bid me to their bosom the chain to unbind : At peace and at pity [ now understand The wail of the wind, i)