On; On; Poet poem – Aleister Crowley poems | Poetry Monster

A poem by Alistar Crowley (1875-1947)

I to the open road,

You to the hunchbacked street –

Which of us two

Shall the earlier rue

That day we chanced to meet?

I with a heart that’s sound,

You with sick fancies of pain –

Which of us two

Would the earlier rue

If we chanced to meet again?

I jingle homely lore,

While you rhyme is with kiss –

Which of us two

Will the earlier rue

The love of the Hoylake Miss?

Not I the first to go,

Nor I the first to deceive –

Which of us two

Shall the the earliest rue

Our garden of make-believe?

You were a Chinese god,

I an offering fair,

As we entered the

Garden of Allah,

To sing our holy prayer.

Entered with hearts bowed low,

Yet I heard a voice that cried:

For he is the god of the

Sacrifice,

You are the crucified.

It was all make-believe,

A foolish game of play,

Our garden of Allah

A drawing-room,

Our Chinese god of clay.

Strings of bruises for pearls,

Tears for forget-me-nots,

And a deadly pain

Of the sickening shame

Watching the fading spots.

As quickly they faded,

The heart of me faded as well,

Until nothing is left

Of my garden,

But a soul sunk to hell.

Hail!

Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire,

No more together we’ll enter the

Enchanted garden of make-believe,

Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.

No more you’ll be the God of Sacrifice,

Nor I the crucified.

Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet

Thy fruit. Why breakest thou the heart?

Why spoilest thou the soul with notes

From thy golden lute?

Lo! our garden a common room

Our Chinese god burnt clay, and

The singing of verses a funeral hymn

That awakes with awakening day.

‘Twas all such a meaningless play,

Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.

Hail!

Poet, take my hand -we’ll walk

Still a little way.

I’ll not desert thee at the close of day,

I, too, must pray.

A beggar asking alms of passers-by,

Does not refuse a drink to one who’s dry

That once by him did lie.

Poet, come close -before I leave for aye

Take thou my hand, we’ll walk still

A little way.

One garment covered both to keep us warm,

What harmed the one, was’t not the other’s harm?

Close clasped, one single form.

Was it not meant of aye?

Poet, take thou my hand -we’ll still

Walk a little way.

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• Jerusalem Delivered – Book 06 – part 05 by Torquato Tasso by Torquato Tasso
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