THE OPIUM-SMOKER
Subtle and sombre the eagre of sleep
Rolls up the bay to envelop 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!
VII
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.
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