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 pitying 
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 savour 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. 
 
They grow in darkness ; heat beguiles their sluggish kisses ; 
in the wood 
They breathe no murmur that is good, and Satan in their 
blossom smiles. 
 
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