Aleister
Crowley.
THE
PALACE
OF
THE
WORLD .
THE fragrant
gateways
of
the Dawn
1
Teem
with
the
scent of
Aowers.
The Mother , Midnight , has withdrawn
Her
slumberous
kissing hours ;
Day
springs, with
footsteps
as
a fawn ,
Into
her
rosy
bowers.
The pale and holy maiden
horn
In
highest heaven
is
set.
My forehead , bathed
in
her
forlorn
Light, with
her
lips
is met :
My lips, that murmur
in
the morn ,
With lustrous
dew
are wet .
My prayer is mighty
with my will ;
My
purpose
as
a sword
Flames
through
the adamant,
to
fill
The gardens
of the Lord
With music ,
that
the air
be
still ,
Dumb
to
its
mighty
chord
.
I
stand above
the
tides
of
time
And
elemental strife
:
My
figure
stands above
,
sublime
,
Shadowing
the Key
of
Life
;
And
the
passion
of
my mighty
rime
Divides me
as
a
knife
.
62