Sar Peladan was
an occultist, a seer, a modern magician. He believed in astrology, in
the spirits of the air, in elves; he was marvellously and deliciously
absurd. Incidentally he wrote some incomprehensible poems and a few
pages of harmonious prose, for, you must know, "a magician is nothing
else but a great harmonist." Here are some eight lines of the
magnificent Invocation. Let me, however, warn you, strictly between
ourselves, that my translation is execrable. I am sorry to say I am no
magician.
"O Nature, indulgent Mother, forgive! Open your arms to the son,
prodigal and weary.
"I have attempted to tear asunder the veil you have hung to conceal from
us the pain of life, and I have been wounded by the mystery. . . .
OEdipus, half way to finding the word of the enigma, young Faust,
regretting already the simple life, the life of the heart, I come back to
you repentant, reconciled, O gentle deceiver!"
THE ASCENDING EFFORT--1910
Much good paper has been lamentably wasted to prove that science has
destroyed, that it is destroying, or, some day, may destroy poetry.
Meantime, unblushing, unseen, and often unheard, the guileless poets have
gone on singing in a sweet strain.
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