THE BLOOD-LOTUS
13
To thy red centre are my eyes held fast and
fervent, as at night
Some sad miasma lends a light of strange and
silent blasphemies
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 tortur-
ing 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
Sheds a loose hint of subtle sin such as the
queen Faustina had.
Thou drawest me. Thy golden lips are
carven Cleopatra wise.
Large, full, and moist, within them les the
silver rampart, whence there slips
That rosy flame of love, the spring of blood
at my light bidding spilt ;
And thy desires, if aught thou wilt, are softer
at my suffering.
Fill up with Death Life’s loving-cup! Give
me the knowledge, me the power
For some new sin one little hour, provoking
Hell to belch us up.
So in some damned abyss of woe thy chant
should dazzle as of old,
Thy kisses burn like molten gold, thy visions
swing me to and fro.
Strange fascinations whirl and wind about
my spirit lying coils ;
Thy charm enticeth, for the spoils of victory,
all an evil mind.
Thy perfume doth confound my thought, new
longings echo, and I crave
Doubtful liaisons with the grave and loves of
Parthia for sport.
I think perhaps no longer yet, but dream and
lust for stranger things
Than ever sucked the lips of kings, or fed
the tears of Mahomet.
Quaint carven vampire bats, unseen in curious
hollows of the trees,
Or deadlier serpents coiled at ease round
carcases of birds unclean ;
All wandering changeful spectre shapes that
dance in slow sweet measure round
And merge themselves in the profound, nude
women and distorted apes
Grotesque and hairy, in their rage more
rampant than the stallion steed ;
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;
loam whips their reeking lips, and still the
flower-witch nestles to my lips,
Twines her swart lissome legs and bips, half
serpent and half devil, till