Cambridge Poets 1900–1913

Aleister Crowley. ON GARRET HOSTEL BRIDGE . L ERE in the evening curl white mists and wreathe 11 in their vapour All the gray spires of stone , all the immobile towers ; Here in the twilight gloom dim trees and sleepier rivers , Here where the bridge is thrown over the amber stream . Chill is the ray that steals from the moon to the stream that whispers Secret tales of its source , songs of its fountain - head . Here do I stand in the dusk ; like spectres mournfully moving Wisps of the cloud - wreaths form , dissipate into the mist , Wrap me in shrouds of gray , chill me and make me shiver , Not with the Night alone , not with the sound of her wing , Yet with a sense of something vague and unearthly stalking ( Step after step as I move ) me , to annul me , quell Hope and desire and life , bid light die under my eyelids , Bid the strong heart despair , quench the desire of Heaven . So I shudder a little ; and my heart goes out to the mountains , Rock upon rock for a crown , snow like an ermine robe ;