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