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 !