I]
Wrapped in the wool of wizardry I sit >"
Mantled in mystery; the little things
That I have made through weariness of wit,
Stars, cells, and whorls, all wonder in their wings!
These Gods and men, these laws, these hieroglyphs
And sigils of my fancy seem to spire
In worship up mine everlasting cliffs
I built between my will and my desire.
They reach me not ; I made a monstrous crowd,
Innumerable monuments of thought,
But none is equal; this high head is bowed
In vain to the wise God it would have wrought,
Had not — Who sitteth on the Holy Throne
Thereby must make himself to be alone.
II]
See! to be God is to be lost to’God.
That which I cling to is my proper essence;
Nor is there aught at any period
That may endure the horror of my presence.
I conjure up dim gods; how frail and thin!
How fast they slip from this appalling level!
This is the wage of the fellatrix Sin
Drunk on the icy death-sperm of the Devil.
I were a maniac did I contemplate
The outward glory and the inward terror,
Sick with the hideous light myself create
From the dark certainty of gloom and error.
For Iam that J am — behold! this’ I’
Hath nothing constant it may measure by.