Category: Aleister Crowley 31

The moon spans Heav­en’s archi­trave;
Stars in the deep are set;
Writ­ten in gold on the day’s grave,
“To love, and to for­get:”
And sea-winds whis­per o’er the wave
The name of Mar­garet.

A heart of gold, a flower of white.
A blush­ing flame of snow,
She moves like lat­ticed moons of light–
And O! her voice is low
Shell-mur­murs born to Amphitrite,
Exult­ing as they go.

Her stature waves, as if a flower
For­got the evening breeze,
But heard the char­i­ot­ed hour
Sweep from the far­ther seas,
And kept sweet time with­in her bow­er,
And hushed mild melodies.

So grave and del­i­cate and tall–
Shall laugh­ter nev­er sweep
Like a moss-guard­ed water­fall
Across her ivory sleep?
A ten­der laugh most musi­cal?
A sigh serene­ly deep?

She laughs in word­less swift desire
A soft Tha­lass­ian tune;
Here eye­lids glim­mer with the fire
That ani­mates the moon;
Her chaste lips flame, as flames aspire
Of pop­pies in mid-june.

She lifts the eye­lid-amethyst,
And looks from half-shut eyes,
Gleam­ing with mir­a­cles of mist,
Gray shad­ows on blue skies:
And on her whole face sun­rise-kissed,
Child won­der­ment most wise.

The whitest arms in all the earth
Blush from the lilac bed
Like a young star even at its birth
Shines out the gold­en head
Sad vio­lets are the maid­en mirth
Pale flames night-canopied.

O gen­tlest lady! Lift those eyes,
And curl those lips to kiss!
Melt my young boy­hood in thy sighs.
A sub­tler Salmacis!
Hide, in that peace, these ecstasies
In that fair foun­tain, this!

She fades as starlight on the stream,
As dew­fall in the dell;
All life and love, one rav­ish­ing gleam
Stolen from sleep­’s cru­cible;
That kiss, that vision is a dream:–
And I–most mis­er­able!

Still Echo wails upon the steep,
“To love–and to for­get!”
Still som­bre whis­pers from the deep
Sob through Night’s gold­en net,
And waft upon the wings of sleep
The name of Mar­garet.