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.