48 
THE BLOOD-LOTUS 
 
Nor heed the  haggard sun’s  eclipse, feeling thy  perfume 
fill my hair, 
And  all  thy  dark  caresses  wear  sin’s  raiment  on  thy 
melting lips— 
 
Nay, by the witchcraft of  thy charms to sleep, nor  dream 
that God survive ; 
To  wake,  this  only  to  contrive—fresh  passions  in  thy 
naked arms ; 
 
And, at that  moment when  thy breath  mixes with  mine, 
like wine, to call 
Each  memory,  one  merged  into  all, to kiss,  to sleep,  to 
mate with death !