1905 · CLOSE READING
Oracles
Oracles (1905), PDF p. 53
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48
THE BLOOD-LOTUS
Nor heed the haggard sun’s eclipse, feeling thy perfume
fill my hair,
And all thy dark caresses wear sin’s raiment on thy
melting lips—
Nay, by the witchcraft of thy charms to sleep, nor dream
that God survive ;
To wake, this only to contrive—fresh passions in thy
naked arms ;
And, at that moment when thy breath mixes with mine,
like wine, to call
Each memory, one merged into all, to kiss, to sleep, to
mate with death !
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