THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
4I 
 
They murder with the old perfume that maddens all men’s 
blood ; we die 
Fresh  from  some  corpse-clothed  memory,  some secret 
redolence of gloom, 
 
Some darkling murmurous song of lust quite strange to 
man and beast and bird, 
Silent in power, not overheard by any snake that eats the 
dust. 
 
No crimson-hooded viper knows ; no silver-crested asp 
has guessed 
The strange soft secrets of my breast ; no leprous cobra 
shall disclose 
 
The many-seated, multiform, divine, essential joys that 
these 
Dank odours bring, that starry seas wash white in vain ; 
intense and warm 
 
The scents fulfil ; they permeate all lips, all arteries, and 
fire 
New murmured music on the lyre that throbs the horrors 
they create. 
 
Omniscient blossom !  Is thy red slack bosom fresher for 
my kiss ? 
Are thy loves sharper ?  Hast thou bliss in all the sorrow 
of the dead ?