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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Poems in English 

• Aubade by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• A Lover’s Complaint by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• A Fairy Song by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 128: How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 148: O me! what eyes hath love put in my head by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 146: Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 145: Those lips that Love’s own hand did make by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 144: Two loves I have, of comfort and despair by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 143: Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 142: Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 141: In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 140: Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 13: O, that you were your self! But, love, you are by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 137: Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 136: If thy soul check thee that I come so near by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 135: Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 134: So, now I have confessed that he is thine by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare

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