THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
85 
 
 
 
THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
 
The ashen sky, too sick for sleep, makes my face 
grey ;  my senses swoon ; 
Here, in the glamour of the moon, will not some pity-
ing godhead weep 
 
For cold grey anguish of her eyes, that look to God, 
and look in vain, 
For death, the anodyne of pain, for sleep, earth’s trivial 
paradise ? 
 
Sleep I forget.  Her silky breath no longer fans my 
ears ;  I dream 
I float on some forgotten stream that hath a saviour 
still of death, 
 
A sweet warm smell of hidden flowers whose heavy 
petals kiss the sun, 
Fierce tropic poisons every one that fume and sweat 
through forest hours ;