THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
43 
 
Jesus would lure me :  from His side the gleaming torrent 
of the spear 
Withdraws,  my  soul  with  joy  and  fear  waits  for  sweet 
blood to pour its tide 
 
Of warm delight—in vain ! so cold, so watery, so slack it 
flows, 
It leaves me moveless as a rose, albeit her flakes are 
manifold. 
 
He hath no scent to drive men mad ; no mystic fragrance 
from his skin 
Sheds a loose hint of subtle sin such as the queen Faustina 
had. 
 
Thou drawest me.  Thy golden lips are carven Cleopatra 
wise. 
Large, full, and moist, within them lies the silver rampart, 
whence there slips 
 
That  rosy  flame of love,  the spring of  blood  at  my  light 
bidding spilt ; 
And  thy  desires,  if aught  thou  wilt,  are  softer  at  my 
suffering. 
 
Fill   up   with  Death  Life’s  loving-cup !   Give  me  the 
knowledge, me the power 
For some new sin one little hour, provoking Hell to belch 
us up.