186
THE STAR IN THE WEST
I died the moment when you tore away
The bleeding
veil of my virginity.
The pain was sudden — and the joy was long .
Persists
that triumph , keenly , utterly !
Write , then , in thy mysterious
book of song :
“ Death
chisels
marble
where life moulded clay. ” 1
And again :
Dim winds
shall whisper
echoes of
Our slow ecstatic
breath ,
Telling
all
worlds
how sweet
is
love
,
How beautiful
is
Death.2
Thus
in
this
cup which
Aleister Crowley offers
us
,
we find
that
to
sip the honey
of
Virtue
is
to
quaff the
wormwood
of
Vice
;
they are one
,
and
there must
be
no
comparison
.
Outside
our minds
exists
neither
one
nor the other
,
alone there
is
Power
,
Eastwards
it
verges
towards Virtue
,
Westwards
towards Vice-Heaven
and Hell
-
yet
in
neither
is
there vitality
,
for absolutes
are without change
.
Our lives are vital because
of
the
mingling
of
many dregs
;
and
as
in
the death
of
these
we can alone check vitality
or
change
,
so
also
in
that
greater
Death
can we alone solve the mystery
of
pure
being
.
Virtue
and Vice they are one
,
being
formless
and
eternal
without time
or
number
;
for whilst we
live death
is
not
,
and the purities
of
state cannot
be
.
We live
in
a
land
of
mingled
cloud
and flame
,
on
the
marge
of
the kingdoms
of
the Positive and the Trans
cendent
,
all
is
as
a
seething
cauldron
of
finalities
;
ever boiling
up
to
vanish
in
the inane
.
Optimism and
Pessimism
,
the
former
proffering
to
us
the
golden
chalice
filled
with
the
vanities
of
life
,
the
latter
a
leaden cup replete with the excretum
of
existence
.
·
The Temple
of
the Holy Ghost
,
vol
.
i,
p
.
182
.
2
The Argonauts
,
iv,
vol
.
ii,
p
.
110
.