White Stains

94 THE BLOOD-LOTUS And with our laughter’s nails refix his torn flesh faster to the wood, And with more cruel zest make good the shackles of the Crucifix. So be it, in thy arms I rest, lulled into silence by the strain Of sweet love-whispers, while I drain damnation from thy tawny breast. Nor heed the haggards sun’s eclipse, feeling thy perfume fill my hair, And all thy dark caresses wear sin’s raiment on thy melting lips— Nay, by the witchcraft of thy charms to sleep, nor drain that God survive ; To wake, this only to contrive—fresh passions in thy naked arms ; And, at that moment when thy breath mixes with mine, like wine, to call Each memory, one merged into all, to kiss, to sleep, to mate with death !