(Pupil.) The desert calls.
(Master.) Then let us go!
Or seek the sacramental snow,
Where like an high-priest I may stand
With acolytes on every hand,
The lesser peaks-my will withdrawn
To invoke the dayspring from the dawn,
Changing that rosy smoke of light
To a pure crystalline white;
Though the mist of mind, as draws
A dancer round her limbs the gauze,
Clothe Light, and show the virgin Sun
A lemon-pale medallion!
Thence leap we leashless to the goal,
Stainless star-rapture of the soul.
So the altar-fires fade
As the Godhead is displayed.
Nay, we stir not. Everywhere
Is our temple right appointed.
All the earth is faery fair
For us. Am I not anointed?
The Sigil burns upon the brow
At the adjuration-here and now.
(Pupil.) The air is laden with perfumes.
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