THE OPIUM-SMOKER 
167 
 
Subtle and sombre the eagre of sleep 
Rolls up the bay to envelope the steep. 
What then is left, what is left—but to weep ?   
 
Maybe the stridency purpled of Pan 
Leads at the last to the light of His plan. 
Maybe his work is the wealth of a man !   
 
VIII 
Bring me the tablets, the stylus of jade !   
Lend me thy light, O compassionate maid !   
Soul of the master, O come to mine aid !   
 
Make me the man of the marvellous mission !   
Sharpen the sword of veridical vision 
Cut me the knot of the mighty magician !   
 
Here I devote me (record me the vow) 
Unto the terrible task of the Tao. 
Soul of the master, the writer be thou !   
 
Bring me the tablets and stylus !  Have done !   
Guard me the doors ;  they are open to none, 
Not to the Emperor !  I have begun.