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The Altar of Artemis 
a poem by Aleister Crowley

Aleister Crowley

There, in the coppice, oak and pine 
And mystic yew and elm are found, 
Sweeping the skies, that grew divine 
With the dark wind's despairing sound, 
The wind that roars from the profound, 
And smites the mountain-tops, and calls 
Mute spirits to black festivals, 
And feasts in valleys iron-bound, 
Desolate crags, and barren ground;-- 
There in the strong storm-shaken grove 
Swings the pale censer-fire for love. 

The foursquare altar, roughly hewn, 
And overlaid with beaten gold, 
Stands in the gloom; the stealthy tune 
Of singing maidens overbold 
Desires mad mysteries untold, 
With strange eyes kindling, as the fleet 
Implacable untiring feet 
Weave mystic figures manifold 
That draw down angels to behold 
The moving music, and the fire 
Of their intolerable desire. 

For, maddening to fiercer thought, 
The fiery limbs requicken, wheel 
In formless furies, subtly wrought 
Of swifter melodies than steel 
That flashes in the fight: the peal 
Of amorous laughters choking sense, 
And madness kissing violence, 
Ring like dead horsemen; bodies reel 
Drunken with motion; spirits feel 
The strange constraint of gods that clip 
From Heaven to mingle lip and lip. 

The gods descend to dance; the noise 
Of hungry kissings, as a swoon, 
Faints for excess of its own joys, 
And mystic beams assail the moon, 
With flames of their infernal noon; 
While the smooth incense, without breath, 
Spreads like some scented flower of death, 
Over the grove; the lover's boon 
Of sleep shall steal upon them soon, 
And lovers' lips, from lips withdrawn, 
Seek dimmer bosoms till the dawn. 

Yet on the central altar lies 
The sacrament of kneaded bread, 
With blood made one, the sacrifice 
To those, the living, who are dead-- 
Strange gods and goddesses, that shed 
Monstrous desires of secret things 
Upon their worshippers, from wings 
One lucent web of light, from head 
One labyrinthine passion-fed 
Palace of love, from breathing rife 
With secrets of forbidden life. 

But not the sunlight, nor the stars, 
Nor any light but theirs alone, 
Nor iron masteries of Mars, 
Nor Saturn's misconceiving zone, 
Nor any planet's may be shown, 
Within the circle of the grove, 
Where burn the sanctities of love: 
Nor may the foot of man be known, 
Nor evil eyes of mothers thrown 
On maidens that desire the kiss 
Only of maiden Artemis. 

But horned and huntress from the skies, 
She bends her lips upon the breeze, 
And pure and perfect in her eyes, 
Burn magical virginity's 
Sweet intermittent sorceries. 
When the slow wind from her sweet word 
In all their conchéd ears is heard. 
And like the slumber of the seas, 
There murmur through the holy trees 
The kisses of the goddess keen, 
And sighs and laughters caught between. 

For, swooning at the fervid lips 
Of Artemis, the maiden kisses 
Sobs and the languid body slips 
Down to enamelled wildernesses. 
Fallen and loose the shaken tresses; 
Fallen the sandal and girdling gold, 
Fallen the music manifold 
Of moving limbs and strange caresses, 
And deadly passion that possesses 
The magic ecstasy of these 
Mad maidens, tender as blue seas. 

Night spreads her yearning pinions, 
The baffled day sinks blind to sleep; 
The evening breeze outswoons the sun's 
Dead kisses to the swooning deep. 
Upsoars the moon; the flashing steep 
Of Heaven is fragrant for her feet; 
The perfume of the grove is sweet 
As slumbering women furtive creep 
To bosoms where small kisses weep, 
And find in fervent dreams the kiss 
Most memoried of Artemis. 

Impenetrable pleasure dies 
Beneath the madness of new dreams; 
The slow sweet breath is turned to sighs 
More musical than many streams 
Under the moving silver beams, 
Fretted with stars, thrice woven across. 
White limbs in amorous slumber toss, 
Like sleeping foam, whose silver gleams 
On motionless dark seas; it seems 
As if some gentle spirit stirred, 
Their lazy brows with some swift word. 

So, in the secret of the shrine, 
Night keeps them nestled, so the gloom 
Laps them in waves as smooth as wine, 
As glowing as the fiery womb 
Of some young tigress, dark as doom, 
And swift as sunrise. Love's content 
Builds its own monument, 
And carves above its vaulted tomb 
The Phoenix on her fiery plume, 
To their own souls to testify 
Their kisses' immortality. 



The Altar of Artemis 
a poem by Aleister Crowley

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