Aleister
Crowley .
Your
scent
is
keen
as
floral wine ,
Inviting
me
and
love -- to
death .
You ,
whom
I kept
a
sacred
shrine,
Will
Aling
the portals
to the day ;
Where
shone
the
moon
the
sun
shall
shine,
Silver
in
scarlet
melt
away .
There
is
yet
a
pang ;
they
gave
me this
Who
can ; and
you
who
could
have
failed
?
Is
it
too
late
to
extend
the
kiss
?
Too
late
the goddess
be unveiled
?
O
but
the
generous
flower
that
gives
Her kisses
to
the violent
sun ,
Yet none the
less
in
ardour
lives
An
hour ,
and
then
her
day
is done .
Back
from
my
lips, back
from
my breast !
I hold
you as I always will,
You
unprofaned
and
uncaressed ,
Silent, majestical , and
still.
Back
!
for I
love
you .
Even yet
Do
you
not
see my
deepest
fire
Burn
through
the
veils and
coverings
set
By fatuous
phantoms
of
desire
?
Back
!
0
I
love
you
evermore
.
But
,
be our
bed
the bridal
sky
!
I
love
you
,
love
you
.
Hither
,
shore
Of
far unstained
eternity
!
There will we
rest
.
Beware
!
Beware
!
For
I
am
young
,
and
you
are
fair
.
Nay
!
I
am
old
in
this
,
you
know
!
Ah
!
heart
of
God
!
I
love
you
so
!