Oracles

THE BLOOD-LOTUS THE ashen sky, too sick for sleep, makes my face grey ; my senses swoon. Here, in the glamour of the moon, will not some pitying godhead weep For cold grey anguish of her eyes, that look to God, and look in vain, For death, the anodyne of pain, for sleep, earth’s trivial paradise ? Sleep I forget. Her silky breath no longer fans my ears ; I dream I float on some forgotten stream that hath a savour still of death, A sweet warm smell of hidden flowers whose heavy petals kiss the sun, Fierce tropic poisons every one that fume and sweat through forest hours. They grow in darkness ; heat beguiles their sluggish kisses ; in the wood They breathe no murmur that is good, and Satan in their blossom smiles. 40