Collected Works (Vol. III)

IMMORTALITY 107 So are their pains the duller. Llell Is managed infinitely well From the peculiar standpoint of A god who says that he is Love. X. That was the poet Crowley’s point. I think 4zs nose is out of joint; He bet on justice being done ; And here—it’s really rather fun !-— The unlucky devil devil-spurred Writes, climbs, does Yoga like a bird ; Just as he was before he ‘‘ died,” The ass is never satisfied. Ife has only been here forty days, And has already writ six plays, Made eight new passes, one new peak, Is bound to do two more this week, And as for meditation! Hard he Soars from Dhyana to Samadhi ; Writes wildly sloka after sloka, Storms the Arupa-Brahma-Loka, Disdains the mundane need of Khana,! Slogs off, like Buddha, to Nibbana :—- Poor devil ! XI, One thing makes me weep. He was wise one way, and scorned sleep. Wherefore he sleeps not, does not hear That still small dreadful voice of fear. Therefore he realises not That this is his eternal lot. Therefore he suffers not at all. XII. Luckier is he than one, a small - Wild girl, whose one desire on earth Was to—be blunt with it !—give birth To children. Here she’s fairly in it! Pumps out her fourteen babes a minute ; Her (under chloroform) the voice Bids to be gleesome and rejoice : ‘* No sterile God balks ¢hzxe endeavour. This sort of thing goes on for ever.” 1 Dinner, XIII. I was a humorous youth enough On earth; I laughed when things were rough. Therefore, I take it, now in Hades The funny side of things—and ladies— Engages my attention. Well! You know enough of life in Hell. I was an altruist, my brothers ! My life one long kind thought for others : For me six maidens wear the willow :— Poisoning is a peccadillo. Hence I’m disposed to give advice Simple, if possibly not nice ; Shun life! an awkward task and deep. But if you cannot, then—shun sleep ! (Suppose I thus had prophesied, Gone to my wife to bed, and died !) EPILOGUE. THE KING-GHOST. THE King-Ghost is abroad. His spectre legions Sweep from their icy lakes and bleak ravines Unto these weary and untrodden regions Where man lies penned among his Might- have-beens. Keep us in safety, Lord, What time the King-Ghost is abroad ! The King-Ghost from his grey malefic slumbers Awakes the malice of his bloodless brain. He marshals the innumerable numbers Of shrieking shapes on the sepulchral plain. Keep us, for Jesu’s sake, What time the King-Ghost is awake !