White Stains

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 ;