The Buddhist poem – Aleister Crowley poems | Poetry Monster

A poem by Alistar Crowley (1875-1947)

There never was a face as fair as yours,

A heart as true, a love as pure and keen.

These things endure, if anything endures.

But, in this jungle, what high heaven immures

Us in its silence, the supreme serene

Crowning the dagoba, what destined die

Rings on the table, what resistless dart

Strike me I love you; can you satisfy

The hunger of my heart!

Nay; not in love, or faith, or hope is hidden

The drug that heals my life; I know too well

How all things lawful, and all things forbidden

Alike disclose no pearl upon the midden,

Offer no key to unlock the gate of Hell.

There is no escape from the eternal round,

No hope in love, or victory, or art.

There is no plumb-line long enough to sound

The abysses of my heart!

There no dawn breaks; no sunlight penetrates

Its blackness; no moon shines, nor any star.

For its own horror of itself creates

Malignant fate from all benignant fates,

Of its own spite drives its own angel afar.

Nay; this is the great import of the curse

That the whole world is sick, and not a part.

Conterminous with its own universe

the horror of my heart!

ANANDA VIJJA.

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