42 
THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
 
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 
 
To lure a soul to hell, to draw some saint’s charred lust, 
to tempt, to win 
Another sacrifice to sin, another poet’s heart to gnaw 
 
With dubious remorse.  Oh ! flame of torturing flower- 
love ! sacrament 
Of  Satan,  triple  element  of  mystery  and  love  and 
shame, 
 
Green, gold, and crimson, in my heart you strive with 
Jesus for its realm, 
While Sorrow’s tears would overwhelm the warriors of 
either part.