Aleister
Crowley.
ON
GARRET
HOSTEL
BRIDGE .
L
ERE
in the
evening
curl white mists
and wreathe
11
in
their vapour
All the gray
spires of stone , all the immobile towers ;
Here
in the twilight
gloom
dim
trees and
sleepier
rivers ,
Here
where
the
bridge
is thrown
over the amber
stream .
Chill
is
the
ray
that
steals
from
the
moon
to
the
stream
that whispers
Secret tales
of
its
source
,
songs
of
its
fountain
-
head
.
Here
do
I
stand
in
the
dusk
;
like
spectres
mournfully
moving
Wisps
of
the
cloud
-
wreaths form
,
dissipate
into
the
mist
,
Wrap me
in
shrouds
of
gray
,
chill me and make me
shiver
,
Not with
the Night
alone
,
not
with
the
sound
of
her wing
,
Yet with
a
sense
of
something
vague
and
unearthly
stalking
(
Step
after
step
as
I
move
)
me
,
to
annul me
,
quell
Hope
and
desire
and
life
,
bid
light
die
under
my
eyelids
,
Bid
the
strong
heart
despair
,
quench
the
desire
of
Heaven
.
So
I
shudder
a
little
;
and my heart
goes
out
to
the
mountains
,
Rock
upon
rock
for
a
crown
,
snow
like
an
ermine
robe
;