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 

• Sonnet 94: They that have power to hurt and will do none by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 93: So shall I live, supposing thou art true by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 92: But do thy worst to steal thy self away by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 91: Some glory in their birth, some in their skill by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 90: Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 8: Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 89: Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 88: When thou shalt be disposed to set me light by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 87: Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 86: Was it the proud full sail of his great verse by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 85: My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 84: Who is it that says most, which can say more by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 83: I never saw that you did painting need by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 82: I grant thou wert not married to my Muse by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 81: Or I shall live your epitaph to make by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 80: O, how I faint when I of you do write by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 7: Lo, in the orient when the gracious light by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 79: Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 78: So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 77: Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare

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