The Nameless Quest in The Gate of the Sanctuary from The Temple of the Holy Ghost (Collected Works, Vol I) by Aleister Crowley.

“‘What is thy purpose, sweet my lord?’ I pressed
One stalwart. ‘Ah! the quest,’ he cried, ‘the quest.'” [via]

Consider also:

  1. “Loved, and no sin done! Ay, the world shall see The quest is first–a love less terrible. Yet, as I ride toward the edge of snow That cuts the blue, I think. For even so Comes reason to me: ‘Oh, return, return! What folly is it for two souls to burn With hell’s own fire! What is this quest of woe? What is the end? Consider and discern!’ Banish the thought! My working reason still Is the rebellious vassal to my will, Because I will it. That is God’s own mind. I cast all thought and prudence to the wind: On, to the quest! The cursed parrot hill Mocks on, on, on! The thought is left behind.”
  2. “It is a sweet thing to be loved, Although my sighs in absence wake, Although my saddening heart is moved, I smile and bear for love’s dear sake. My songs their wonted music make, Joyous and careless, songs of youth, Because the sacred lips of both Are met to kiss the last good-bye, Because sweet glances weep for ruth That we must part, and love must die.”
  3. “My lips are fervent, as in prayer, Thy lips are parted, as to kiss: My hand is clenched upon the air, Thy hand’s soft touch, how sweet it is! The wind is amorous of the sea; The sea’s large limbs to its embrace Curl, and thy perfume curls round me, An incense on my eager face.”
  4. “I lifted up my eyes. What soul stood there, Fronting my path? Tall, stately, delicate, A woman fairer than a pomegranate. A silver spear her hands of lotus bear, One shaft of moonlight quivering and straight. She pointed to the East with flashing eyes: ‘Thou canst not see her–but my Queen shall rise.’ Bowed head and beating heart, with feet unsure I passed her, trembling, for she was too pure. I could have loved her. No: she was too wise. Her presence was to gracious to endure. ‘She did not bid me go and chain me to her,’ I cried, comparing.”
  5. “I must not stoop and take my ease, Or touch the body lithe and thin. Bright body of the myriad smiles, Sweet serpent of the lower life, The smooth silk touch of thee defiles, The lures and languors of a wife. Slip to the floor, I must not turn: There is a lion in the way! The star of morning rise and burn: I seek the dim supernal day!”