THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
91 
There is no help ;  their horrid need on these pale women 
they assuage. 
Wan breasts too pendulous, thin hands waving so 
aimlessly, they breathe 
Faint sickly kisses, and inweave my head in quiet 
burial-bands. 
 
The silent troops recede ;  within the fiery circle of 
their glance 
Warm writhing woman-horses dance a shameless 
Bacchanal of sin ; 
 
Foam whips their reeking lips, and still the flower-
witch nestles to my lips, 
Twines her swart lissome legs and hips, half serpent 
and half devil, till 
 
My whole life seems to lie in her ;  her kisses draw 
my breath  ;  my face 
Loses its lustre in the grace of her quick bosom ;  sinister 
 
The raving spectres reel ;  I see beyond my Circe’s 
eyes no shape 
Save vague cloud-measures that escape the dances 
whirling witchery.