THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
87 
The scents fulfil, they permeate all lips, all arteries, 
and fire 
New murmured music on the lyre that throbs the 
horrors they create. 
 
Omniscient blossom !  Is thy red slack bosom fresher 
for my kiss ? 
Are thy loves sharper ?  Hast thou bliss in all the 
sorrows of the dead ? 
 
Why art thou paler when the moon grows loftier in 
the troublous sky ? 
Why dost thou beat and heave when I press lips of fire, 
hell’s princeliest boon, 
 
To thy mad petals, green and gold like angels’ wings, 
when as a flood 
God’s essence fills them, and the blood throughout their 
web grows icy cold ? 
 
To thy red centre are my eyes held fast and fervent, 
as at night 
Some sad miasma lends a light of strange and silent 
blasphemies