A Ballad of Choosing in White Stains by Aleister Crowley.

“Love brought a garland to my feet to-day
Offering to crown my head withal, and said:
‘The year is young, it is the time of May,
Autumn is distant, and the winter, dead’
And would therewith my brows have garlanded
But that I asked him ‘Is not this a fire
To burn the scorched brain through my maddened head?
Thou has a guerdon, is it not for hire?'” [via]