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4 matching pages
Page 1 of 11939 · PDF PAGE 10
…t swift spear of the frost. Snow! I am nothing at last; I sit and am utterly still; They are perished, the phantoms, and past; they were born of my weariness-will When I craved, craved being and form, when the consciousness-cloud was a mist Precurser of stupor and storm, when I and my shadow had kissed, And brought into life all the shapes that confused the clear space with their marks, Vain spectres whose vapour escapes, a whirlwind of ruinous sparks, No substance have any of these; I have dreamed them in sickness of lust, Delirium born of dis…
1939 · PDF PAGE 11
…ds that beget Ideas intangible wrought to things less conceivable yet. It may be. Little I reckbut, assume the existence of earth, Am I born to be hanged by the neck, a curse from the hour of my birth? Am I born to abolish mans guilt? His horrible heritage, awe? Or a seed in his wantonness spilt by a jester? I care not a straw, For I understand Do what thou wilt; and that is the whole of the Law.
1939 · PDF PAGE 7
…yer, and the soul of its act as its word Is of them that were Two to make One, and to seal the Event with a Third. Oh, Love, Astarte sea-born, oh Star blue bright in the West, I invoke thee, thy priest in the shrine that is built of my blood in my breast! Since thou art in me and of me, since thou art the heart of my heart, The soul of my soul, nay, the skin of my skin, not a being apart, I am thou, I accept the intent, acquiesce in the nature implied; If change be the purpose of Love, I am launched and afloat on the tide. I accept every phanto…
1939 · PDF PAGE 6
HYMN TO ASTARTE. For DEIRDRE Serene are the stars, and serene my soul, ablaze in the Night. Then how shall I worship Astarte sea-born, how invoke her aright? I am free from the fire and the foam, I have conquered the dragons and doves; I have gotten me Love as the gold from the furnace that melted my loves. Love is not bound to the body, not sparse and adrift with the mind Not secret with soul, though the soul seem one and alone of its kind. The body is naught but a corpse, its growth but a name of decay, A delirious dream of sick godswhere th…