[Dedicated to Frank Harris, editor of Vanity Fair] <br /> <br />On the black night, beneath the winter moon, <br />I clothed me in the limbs of Codia, <br />Swooning my soul out into her red throat, <br />So that the glimmer of our skins, the tune <br />Og our ripe rythm, seemed the hideous play <br />Of death-worms crawling on a corpse,afloat <br />With life that takes its thirst <br />Only from things accurst. <br /> <br />Closer than Clodia's clasp, Death had me down <br />To his black heart, and fed upon my breath, <br />So that we seemed a stilness -whiter than <br />The stars, more silent than the stars, a crown <br />Of Stars ! For in the icy kiss of death <br />I found that God that is denied to man <br />So long as love and thought <br />And life avail him aught.<br /><br />Aleister Crowley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/athor-and-asar/
