Mr. Crowley has a large vocabulary and considerable metrical
skill. At present he does not seem careful to consider the mean-
ing, and some of his pieces are nearly akin to verbiage. He has
imagination, however; and, not infrequently, the poet’s touch.”—
The St. James's Gazette.
‘We shall be sorry if anyone who cares much for verse in
itself, who is curious of new tendencies in contemporary poetry,
and values the articulate expression of an individuality, should
miss a little book of unusual quality, called ‘ Songs’of the Spirit,’
by Aleister Crowley (Kegan Paul and Co., 8vo., pp. 109, 3s. 6d.).
We have read it with admiration for its intense spirituality, as
well as for its technical superiorities, and with sympathy for its
spontaneous reflection of certain moods—byways of poetry, no
doubt, that Mr. Crowley pursues almost without variation except
in the movement of his rhythms, now swift as desire and now
slow as remorse, with an utterance at once mysterious and vivid.
Visions of temptation and of beatitude, wavering aspirations to
serenity and knowledge, hymns and rhapsodies of a devout
mysticity, emotional descriptions illustrating that saying of
Amiel’s, ‘Les paysages sont des états d’Ame’—such are the
contents of this volume, in which we are sure of having heard an
impressive and an original voice dominating diverse echoes that
we hesitate whether to ascribe to literary influences or to co-
incidence of temperament. For there are things that suggest
the names of Goethe and of Baudelaire; others, such as ‘The
Quest’ and that strange ‘ Philosopher's Progress,’ which begins
‘That which is highest as the deep
Is fixed, the depth as that above ;
Death’s face is as the face of Sleep;
And Lust is likest Love,’
share at least Blake’s impenetrable simplicity of form, and their
symbolism is, like his, curiously seductive, even where it seems
turned to obscurantism; elsewhere Mr. Swinburne is (if only
superficially) recalled; and ‘ Vespers’ is by no means unworthy
of Rossetti. Similar preoccupations, again, direct the muse of
Mr. Francis Thompson ; but the verse of ‘ Songs of the Spirit’
—essentially intimate, introspective if you like—is also free from
obvious artifice and eccentricity, it is fiery and clear-measured
and easy of phrasing. We venture to quote from a poem dated
‘Amsterdam’ some lines exemplifying Mr. Crowley’s talent :
‘Let me pass out beyond the city gate,
Where I may wander by the water still,
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