By Aleister Crowley
In Life what hope is always unto men?
Stories of Arthur that shall come again
Cleansing the Earth in her eternal stain,
Elias, Charlemagne, Christ. What matter then?
What matter who, or how, or even when?
If we but look beyond the primal pain,
And trust the Future to write all things plain
Graven on brass with the predestined pen.
This is the doom. Upon the blind blue sky
A little cloud, no larger than a hand.
Whether I live and love, or love and die,
I care not: either way I understand
To me–to live is Christ; to die is gain
For I, I also, I shall come again.