Now I rest, for here I build heaven,
Within these glades of infinity.
Here I shall find a place for my idyl,
Down by where the corn fields lead.
That which I sow shall not be forgotten,
Lest I grow weary of my Harvest deeds.
And that which is dead shall re-resurrection!—
Abundance! abundance!—
Like the changing of the autumn leaves.

The hour is nigh, my brothers:
We shall come to pass!
The moment is soon, my friends,
When we shall grow weak from the fast!

Do not falter, O rosen-clad wise men of the future and the past!
My Rosicrucian brothers who brandish the Red Rose!
Those who wear thine thorns across thine breast!
Those who wear thine thorns across thine breast!

And so it was said:
“The Black Nourishment found its fruit in the fruit-laden tree which manifested inside the Line.”
And so it seems,
A guiding light shines upon the place where the exalted body of Christian Rosencrantz lies,
Dust-embalmed.
And we— the initiates— have not forgotten our great master!—
The venerable, most honourable, Christian Rosencrantz—
Who emerged with us, from the mud, then died.

Reverberation:
The pilgrim's corn. It is illuminated by the Harvest Moon.

A reverberation:
What old Palmer saw when he drew his pilgrim cooling in the warmth of a circular Sun, in the early light of the Sun.

Reverberation:
The industrial fields— they swell— where, once, the Harvest Moon hung— amber— like the swell of the midday Sun.

Samurai blade!
Swing!
The Moon cuts the Sun in two. Inside we see the rings of the Sun.
God drew these rings with his steady hand, for his art is soft and tender.

"Good day, Sir (or be it the night?). I work the Harvest. At this present moment I am resting in the heat of the midday Sun. You may use my body as a sundial, for my shadow keeps pace with the steps of the Sun.”

And, as the old worker of the Harvest settled down, he looked up, in meditation, and he saw Blake's sun-flower— golden!— keeping pace with the steps of the Sun.

I have pulled the wool over my eyes—
Now I am glove.
I sit amongst the Seraphim, the Cherubim, and the Thrones—
We laugh and drink-merry!

Look upon this, fellow mystics,
For in that place amidst the sky,
There we elude Time.

Now we crawl through the dirt, on the forest floor,
Between the stone graveyards, evermore.
Now we are accompanied by those who were as they had been below, as they had been when they were once above.

I went to the Garden of Love.
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not, writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.

In each vault: a fifty pound note—
How fragile our consciousness must be!
From each well: an overflow of oil,
Gently trickling into the village's stream.
For all their wealth, no sons to be seen;
No daughters frolicking across the effervescent green.
Only weapons adorn their mantlepiece.
No pictures of family. No memories amassed.
No records for spiritual esteem.