THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN

London, England

20 July 1910

(PAGE 5)

RECENT VERSE.

It is right that Mr. Aleister Crowley—or rather, as the preface to Ambergris (Elkin Mathews, pp. viii, 198, 3s 6d. net) tells us, “a committee of seven competent persons sitting separately”—has seen fit to make a selection from his poetical writings. As originally published, wheat and tares were in luxuriant confusion, and one trembled for the task of the harvesting angel. Even here the torrential flow of words and the dim shade of the neo-symbolism of “The Equinox” smother and obsess, but merit will out. Mr. Crowley has the precious gift of an unfailing sense of the sheer beauty of rhythmical words:—

Her stature waves, as if a flower

Forgot the evening breeze,

But heard the charioted hour

Sweep from the farther seas,

And kept sweet time within her bower,

And hushed mild melodies.

So grave and delicate and tall—

Shall laughter never sweep

Like a moss-guarded waterfall

Across her ivory sleep?

A tender laugh most musical!

A sigh serenely deep?

She lifts the eyelids amethyst,

And looks from half-shut eyes,

Gleaming with miracles of mist,

Grey shadows on blue skies;

And on her whole face sunrise kissed,

Child-wonderment most wise.

Such lines are full of music; and again,

I would not kiss thee, I!

Lest my lip’s character

Ruin thy flower.

Curve thou one maidenly

Kiss, stooping from the sky

Of peace and power!

Thine only be the embrace!—

I move not from my place,

Feel the exultant face

Mine for an hour!

is but one of the many verses that, in their intimate, sensuous delicacy and lyrical tenderness, are reminiscent and not unworthy of Swinburne. Mr. Crowley is too often torn and scattered broadcast or swept into something very like incoherence by a tremendous passion, but he can throw into the scale against such luxuriant violences the calm of the unrhythmed “In Hollow Stones, Scawfell,” and the gentleness of

The somber sun

Shines darkly in her breast

But makes no joy therein,

And all his kisses sharp and keen

Bring only now desire of rest,

Not their rapture; the warm violet eyes

Melt into sweet hot tears; subtler the sighs

Are interfused of death . . .