Collected Works (Vol. II)

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