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 The mighty sound of forests murmuring 
In answer to the dread command; 
The stars that shudder when their king 
extends his hand, 

His awful hand to bless, to curse; or moves 
Toward the dimmest den 
In the thick leaves, not known of loves 
Or nymphs or men; 

(Only the sylph's frail gossamer may wave 
Their quiet frondage yet, 
Only her dewy tears may lave 
The violet;) 

The mighty answer of the shaken sky 
To his supreme behest; the call 
Of Ibex that behold on high 
Night's funeral, 

And see the pale moon quiver and depart 
Far beyond space, the sun ascend 
And draw earth's globe unto his heart
To make an end; 

The shriek of startled birds; the sobs that tear 
With sudden terror the sharp sea 
That slept, and wove its golden hair 
Most mournfully; 

The rending of the earth at his command 
Who wields the wrath of heaven, and is dumb; 
Hell starts up - and before his hand 
Is overcome.
I heard these voices, and beheld afar These dread works wrought at his behest: And on his forehead, lo! a star, And on his breast.
And on his feet I knew the sandals were More beautiful than flame, and white, And on the glory of his hair The crown of night.
And I beheld his robe, and on its hem Were writ unlawful words to say, Broidered like lilies, with a gem More clear than day.
And round him shone so wonderful a light As when on Galilee Jesus once walked, and clove the night, And calmed the sea.
I scarce could see his features for the fire That dwelt about his brow, Yet, for the whiteness of my own desire, I see him now; Because my footsteps follow his, and tread The awful bounds of heaven, and make The very graves yield up their dead, And high thrones shake; Because my eyes still steadily behold And dazzle not, nor shun the night, The foam - born lamp of beaten gold And secret might; Because my forehead bears the sacred Name, And my lips bear the brand Of Him whose heaven is one flame, Whose holy hand Gathers this earth, who built the vaults of space, Moulded the stars, and fixed the iron sea, Because His love lights through my face And all of me.
Because my hand may fasten on the sword Of my heart falter not, and smite Those lampless limits most abhorred Of iron night, And pass beyond their horror to attack Fresh foemen, light and truth to bring Through their untrodden fields of black, A victor king.
I know all must be well, all must be free; I know God as I know a friend; I conquer, and most silently Await the end.

Poem by Aleister Crowley
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