Oracles

42 THE BLOOD-LOTUS Why art thou paler when the moon grows loftier in the troublous sky ? Why dost thou beat and heave when I press lips of fire, hell’s princeliest boon, To thy mad petals, green and gold like angels’ wings, when as a flood God’s essence fills them, and the blood throughout their web grows icy cold ? 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 torturing 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.