Cambridge Poets 1900–1913

Aleister Crowley. I hear it not ; I contemplate the wound Stabbed in the flanks of my dear silver Christ . He hangs in anguish there ; the crown of thorns Pierces that palest brow ; the nails drip blood ; There is the wound ; no Mary by Him mourns , There is no John beside the cruel wood . I am alone to kiss the silver lips ; I rend my clothing for the temple 's veil ; My heart 's black night must act the sun 's eclipse ; My groans must play the earthquake , till I quail At my own dark imagining . And now The wind is bitterer ; the air breeds snow ; I put my Christ away ; I turn my brow Towards the south steadfastly : my feet must go Some journey of despair . I dare not turn To meet the sun ; I will not follow him ; Better to pass where sand and sulphur burn , And days are hazed with heat , and nights are dim With some malarial poison . Better lie Far and forgotten on some desert isle Where I may watch the silent ships go by , And let them share my burden for awhile . Let me pass out beyond the city gate Where I may wander by the water still , And see the faint few stars immaculate Watch their own beauty in its depth , and chill Their own desire within its icy stream . Let me move on with vacant eyes , as one Lost in the labyrinth of some ill dream , Move and move on, and never see the sun