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Page 1 of 11939 · PDF PAGE 12
THE ARTIST. For FRIEDA I I know that Earth is false and Hell And Heaven to man are deaf and dumb, too. I know what last dim oracle Every Panurge is bound to come to. I find more mental bread and cheese In bounty of one brandy bottle Than in all books Averrhoes Once built about his Aristotle. II The babble of my slut, I swear Gives joy and certitudes intenser Than all the wit of a Voltaire And all the science of a Spencer. My poppy-pipeits shows surpass! More and more beautiful and brainier Than all the lumps of Pheidias And all the daubs of de…
1939 · PDF PAGE 10
…he wheel of my being to Naught. Is there even the memory left? That I was, that I am? It is lost. As I utter the Word, I am cleft by the last 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 …
1939 · PDF PAGE 11
…eing and thought. Still as I sit, and destroy all possible trace of the past, All germ of the future, nor joy nor knowledge alive at the last, It is vain, for the Silence is dowered with a nature, the seed of a name: Necessity, fearfully flowered with the blossom of possible Aim. I am Necessity? Scry Necessity mother of Fate! And Fate determines me I; and I have the Will to create. Vast is the sphere, but it turns on itself like the prettiest star, And I am the looby that learns that all things equally are. Inscrutable Nothing, the Gods, the …
1939 · PDF PAGE 7
… Truth; Mine age holds thee naked, the hem of whose garment bewildered my youth. My soul being thus with thy soul, shall not soul win at last to the wit That its changeless perfection is death, itself the assassin of it? Love under will is the law; all that exists, from the dust To the Gods, is but jetsam of Love, cast up by the tide of Her lust. So I hail thee, Astarte, and hymn thee in brothel and temple the same, Who are seed of all change, being Love, by Corruption Thine innermost Name! I know Thy device to deceive Thy servants Thine image …