Aleister
Crowley .
I
sit
as
God
must
sit;
I
reign
.
Redemption
from
the threads
of
pain
I
weave
,
until
the
veil
be
drawn
.
I
burn
the
chaff
,I
glean
the
grain
;
In
silence
I
await
the
dawn
.
SONG
.
TO
sea
!
To
sea
!
The
ship
is
trim
;
The
breezes
bend
the sails
.
They
chant
the
necromantic
hymn
,
Arouse Arabian
tales
.
To
sea
!
Before
us
leap
the waves
;
The wild
white
combers
follow
.
Invoke
,
ye
melancholy
slaves
,
The morning
of
Apollo
!
There
's
phosphorescence
in
the
wake
,
And
starlight
o'
er
the
prow
.
One
comet
,
like
an
angry
snake
,
Lifts up
its
hooded
brow
.
The black
grows grey
towards
the East
:
The
black
silver glowstic feast
Gods
gather
to
the mystic
feast
On
interlunar
snows
.
55