88 
THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
 
To lure a soul to hell, to draw some saint’s charred 
lust, to tempt, to win 
Another sacrifice to sin, another poet’s heart to gnaw 
 
With dubious remorse.  Oh !  flame of torturing flower-
love !  sacrament 
Of Satan, triple element of mystery and love and shame, 
 
Green, gold, and crimson, in my heart you strive with 
Jesus for its realm, 
While Sorrow’s tears would overwhelm the warriors of 
either part ! 
 
Jesus would lure me :  from his side the gleaming torrent 
of the spear 
Withdraws, my soul with joy and fear waits for sweet 
blood to pour its tide 
 
Of warm delight—in vain !  so cold, so watery, so slack 
it flows, 
It leaves me moveless as a rose, albeit her flakes are 
manifold. 
 
He hath no scent to drive men mad ;  no mystic 
fragrance from his skin