Oracles

THE BLOOD-LOTUS 45 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 ; Foam whips their reeking lips, and still the flower-witch nestles to my lips, Twines her swart lissome legs and hips, half serpent and half devil, till My whole self seems to lie in her ; her kisses draw my breath ; my face Loses its lustre in the grace of her quick bosom ; sinister The raving spectres reel ; I see beyond my Circe’s eyes no shape Save vague cloud-measures that escape the dance’s whirling witchery.