Poetry

I am a pale passionate Pilgrim evoked from the dust and the dark. In my brain are the molten ivories […]

Yon drowsing Spider that squats there upon Time’s rotting timbers spinning her seven webs of a million threads, spinning and

I hear laughter and there is a feasting, and another marriage is made A conspiracy has been formed to accouch

Night! Night! Eternal Night, whose black vapors have filled all the sluiceways of Time—Night! ageless and void, seamless and bald:

The keenest Cynic of them all: Jesus Christ! Hail! passionate rebel, great anarch of Nazareth, slitter of masks, announcer of

My brain is the haunt of a naked Curiosity that has lured my soul across the purple bars of sense,

God?—the sum of my tendencies, uttered, unuttered, definite, innate; Me the individual, my special differentia—not thee, but me unevolved, guessing

I have ascended to the topmost spaces and dragged the cars of the devildare gods from their courses; They saw

I am the Spectre at the feasts of the strong men and sneer at their brag. I listen where the