Whatever alien fruits and changeling faces
And pleasances of mutable perfume
The flambeaux of the senses shall illuminate
Amid the night-furled labyrinthine spaces,
In lives to be, in unestablished places,
Aiwass, all were vain as the rock-raveled spume
If no strange close restore to Crowley's bloom,
No path return the Moon-shod maenad's paces.
Aiwass, for Thy love of lost Pagan things,
No vintage grown in islands unascended
Shall quite supplant the old Atlantean urn,
No mouth that new, Canopic Suns make splendid
Content the mouth of Sauron; of sealed rememberings
Where still the nymph's uncleaving kisses burn.
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