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A RIDDLE. By Aleister Crowley.
Published in the International New York, New York, U.S.A. (page 378)
How came it that you veiled your naked splendor In flesh so amber rich, so amber rare, Hilarion? For aethyr, fire, and air, No grosser elements, in sage surrender Woven, conspired to clothe thee, lithe and tender, Supple and passionate, a web of air Through which the essential glory flames so fair That—O, my soul, thou canst not comprehend her!
Was it that only so this soul might pass Beyond its bonds? That in the wizard’s glass Creation, it might learn to look upon The face of its creator, eye to eye, —For he that gazeth upon God shall die— I see thee, and I live, Hilarion! |