by Aleister Crowley
Snow that fallest from heaven, bear me aloft on thy wings
To the domes of the star-girdled Seven, the abode of ineffable things,
Quintessence of joy and of strength, that, abolishing future and past,
Mak'st the Present an infinite length, my soul all-One with the Vast,
The Lone, the Unnameable God, that is ice of His measureless cold,
Without being or form or abode, without motion or matter, the fold
Where the shepherded Universe sleeps, with nor sense nor delusion nor dream,
No spirit that wantons or weeps, no thought in its silence supreme.
I sit, and am utterly still; in mine eyes is my fathomless lust
Ablaze to annihilate Will, to crumble my being to dust,
To calcine the dust to an ash, to burn up the ash to an air,
To abolish the air with a flash of the final, the fulminant flare.
All this I have done, and dissolved the primordial germ of my thought;
I have rolled myself up, and revolved the wheel of my being to Naught.
Is there even the memory left? That I was, that I am?
It is lost.
As I utter the Word, I am cleft by the last swift spear of
Snow! I am nothing at last; I sit, and am utterly still;
They are perished, the phantoms, and past; they were
born of my weariness-will
When I craved, craved being and form, when the consciousness-cloud was a mist
Precurser of stupor and storm, when I and my shadow had kissed,
And brought into life all the shapes that confused the clear space with their marks,
Vain spectres whose vapour escapes, a whirlwind of ruinous sparks,
No substance have any of these; I have dreamed them in sickness of lust,
Delirium born of disease-ah, whence was the master, the "must"
Imposed on the All? is it true, then, that
something in me
Is subject to fate? Are there two, after all,
that can be?
I have brought all that is to an end; for myself am sufficient and sole.
Do I trick myself now? Shall I rend once again this homologous Whole?
I have stripped every garment from space; I have strangled the secre of Time,
All being is fled from my face, with Motion's inhibited rime.
Stiller and stiller I sit, till even Infinity fades;
'Tis an idol-'tis weakness of wit that breeds, in inanity, shades!
Yet the fullness of Naught I become, the deepest and steadiest Naught,
Contains in its nature the sum of the functions of being and thought.
Still as I sit, and destroy all possible trace of the past,
All germ of the future, nor joy nor knowledge alive at the last,
It is vain, for the Silence is dowered with a nature, the seed of a name:
Necessity, fearfully flowered with the blossom of possible
I am Necessity? Scry Necessity mother of Fate!
And Fate determines me "I"; and I have the Will to create.
Vast is the sphere, but it turns on itself like the pettiest star.
And I am the looby that learns that all things equally are.
Inscrutable Nothing, the Gods, the cosmos of Fire and
Suns,atoms, the clouds and the clouds ineluctably dare to exist-
I have made the Voyage of Thought, the Voyage of Vision,
To the heart of the Ocean of Naught from the source of
the Spring of I am:
I know myself wholly the brother alike of the All and the
I know that all things are each other, that their sum and their substance is None;
But the knowledge itself can excel, its fulness hath broken its bond;
All's Truth, and all's falsehood as well, and-what of the region beyond?
So, still though I sit, as for ever, I stab to the heart of my spine;
I destroy the last seed of endeavour to seal up my soul in the shrine
Of Silence, Eternity, Peace; I abandon the Here and the
Now; I cease from the effort to cease; I absolve the dead I from
its Vow, I am wholly content to be dust, whether that be a mote or a star,
To live and to love and to lust, acknowledge what seem
for what are,
Not to care what I am, if I be, whence I came,whither go,how I thrive,
If my spirit be bound or be free, save as Nature contrive.
What I am, that I am, 'tis enough. I am part of a glorious game.
Am I cast for madness or love? I am cast to esteem them the same.
Am I only a dream in the sleep of some butterfly?
Phantom of fright
Conceived, who knows how, or how deep, in the measure-
less womb of the night?
I imagine impossible thought, metaphysical voids that beget
Ideas intangible wrought to things less conceivable yet.
It may be. Little I reck -but, assume the existence of earth.
Am I born to be hanged by the neck, a curse from the
hour of my birth?
Am I born to abolish man's guilt? His horrible heritage, awe?
Or a seed in his wantonness spilt by a jester? I care not a straw,
For I understand Do what thou wilt; and that is the whole of the Law.