A poem by Alistar Crowley (1875-1947)
The mighty sound of forests murmuring
In answer to the dread command;
The stars that shudder when their king
extends his hand,
His awful hand to bless, to curse; or moves
Toward the dimmest den
In the thick leaves, not known of loves
Or nymphs or men;
(Only the sylph’s frail gossamer may wave
Their quiet frondage yet,
Only her dewy tears may lave
The violet;)
The mighty answer of the shaken sky
To his supreme behest; the call
Of Ibex that behold on high
Night’s funeral,
And see the pale moon quiver and depart
Far beyond space, the sun ascend
And draw earth’s globe unto his heart
To make an end;
The shriek of startled birds; the sobs that tear
With sudden terror the sharp sea
That slept, and wove its golden hair
Most mournfully;
The rending of the earth at his command
Who wields the wrath of heaven, and is dumb;
Hell starts up; and before his hand
Is overcome.
I heard these voices, and beheld afar
These dread works wrought at his behest:
And on his forehead, lo! a star,
And on his breast.
And on his feet I knew the sandals were
More beautiful than flame, and white,
And on the glory of his hair
The crown of night.
And I beheld his robe, and on its hem
Were writ unlawful words to say,
Broidered like lilies, with a gem
More clear than day.
And round him shone so wonderful a light
As when on Galilee
Jesus once walked, and clove the night,
And calmed the sea.
I scarce could see his features for the fire
That dwelt about his brow,
Yet, for the whiteness of my own desire,
I see him now;
Because my footsteps follow his, and tread
The awful bounds of heaven, and make
The very graves yield up their dead,
And high thrones shake;
Because my eyes still steadily behold
And dazzle not, nor shun the night,
The foam; born lamp of beaten gold
And secret might;
Because my forehead bears the sacred Name,
And my lips bear the brand
Of Him whose heaven is one flame,
Whose holy hand
Gathers this earth, who built the vaults of space,
Moulded the stars, and fixed the iron sea,
Because His love lights through my face
And all of me.
Because my hand may fasten on the sword
Of my heart falter not, and smite
Those lampless limits most abhorred
Of iron night,
And pass beyond their horror to attack
Fresh foemen, light and truth to bring
Through their untrodden fields of black,
A victor king.
I know all must be well, all must be free;
I know God as I know a friend;
I conquer, and most silently
Await the end.
A few random poems:
- Detached Living by P.J.Reed
- Medallion poem – Ezra Pound poems
- Burnt in contemplation by Nishant Deherkar
- Ольга Седакова – Все труды
- not_love_perhaps.html
- After Our Likeness
- Ship Starting, The. by Walt Whitman
- Set me FREE by Neelam Sinha
- Music poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry
- The India Wharf by Sara Teasdale
- WALKING INTO YOU by Satish Verma
- Potions poem – Yusef Komunyakaa poems | Poetry Monster
- Dawlish poem – John Betjeman poems | Poems and Poetry
- Psalm 83 poem – John Milton poems
- Низами Гянджеви – Если б радость не лучилась
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Robert Burns: Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves:
- Robert Burns: The Winter Of Life:
- Robert Burns: The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress:
- Robert Burns: Inconstancy In Love:
- Robert Burns: How Lang And Dreary Is The Night:
- Robert Burns: Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly:
- Robert Burns: Esteem For Chloris:
- Robert Burns: Pretty Peg:
- Robert Burns: On Andrew Turner:
- Robert Burns: On An Innkeeper Nicknamed “The Marquis”:
- Robert Burns: On A Swearing Coxcomb:
- Robert Burns: On A Suicide:
- Robert Burns: On Hearing It Asserted Falsehood: is expressed in the Rev. Dr. Babington’s very looks.
- Robert Burns: On Being Shewn A Beautiful Country Seat : Belonging to the same Laird [not quite so wise as Solomon].
- Robert Burns: Epigram On A Country Laird,: not quite so wise as Solomon.
- Robert Burns: On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico:
- Robert Burns: On Chloris: Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.
- Robert Burns: To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J-N: On her Principles of Liberty and Equality.
- Robert Burns: To Dr. Maxwell: On Miss Jessy Staig’s recovery.
- Robert Burns: She Says She Loes Me Best Of A’:
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
