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

“Beauty, the sacred lotus: let me say
The word, and make my purity complete.
The whole is mine, and shall I keep a part?
O Beauty, I must see thee as thou art!” [via]

Consider also:

  1. “Prince of the air, thou offerest nought to me I serve thee, recompensed of hell-fire, More nobly than these others, verily Since none with impious word may mock at thee ‘Thou has a guerdon, is it not for hire?'”
  2. “A hollow voice from every quarter cries: ‘O thou, zelator of this Paradise, Tell thou the secret of the pillar! None Can hear thee, of the souls beneath the sun. Speak, or the very Godhead in thee dies. For we are many and thy name is One.'”
  3. “The king did start, Gripped my strong hands, and held me to his heart, And could not speak a moment. Then he set A curb of sorrow and subdued its dart. ‘Go! and the blessing of high God attend Thy path, and lead thee to the doubtful end. No tongue that secret ever may reveal. Thy soul is god-like and thy frame is steel; Thou mayst win the quest–the king, thy friend, Gives thee his sword to keep thee–Gereth, kneel! ‘I dub thee Earl; arise!’ And then there rings The queen’s voice: ‘Shall my love not match the king’s? Here, from my finger drawn, this gem of power Shall guard thee in some unimagined hour. It hath strange virtue over mortal things. I freely give it for thy stirrup’s dower.’ I left the presence. Now the buffeting wind Gladdens my face–I leave the court behind. Am I Stark mad? My face grows grim and grave; I see–O Mary Mother, speak and save! I stare and stare until mine eyes are blind– There was no jewel in the ring she gave!”
  4. “The overwhelming sweetness of a voice Filled me with Godhead. ‘Still remains the choice! Thou knowest me for Beauty! Canst thou bear The fuller vision, the abundant air?’ I only wept. The elements rejoice; No tear before had ever fallen there.”
  5. “What meets mine ear, That every nerve and bone of me cries halt? What is this cold that nips me at the throat? This shiver in my blood? this icy note Of awe within my agonising brain? Neither of shame, nor love, nor fear, nor pain, Nor anything? Has love no antidote, Courage no buckler? Hark! it comes again. Friend, hast thou heard the wailing of the damned? Friend, hast thou listened when a murderer shammed Pale smiles amid his fellows as they spoke Low of his crime: his fear is like to choke His palsied throat. How, if Hell’s gate were slammed This very hour upon thy womanfolk? Conceive, I charge thee! Brace thy spirit up To drink at that imagination’s cup! Then, shriek, and pass! For thou shalt understand A little of the pressure of the hand That crushed me now.”