How many times, like lotus lilies
risen
Upon the surface of a river, there
Have risen
floating on my blood the rare
Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from
prison.
So I am clothed all over with the
light
And sensitive beautiful blossoming of
passion;
Till naked for her in the finest
fashion
The flowers
of all my mud swim into sight.
And then I offer all myself
unto
This woman who likes to love me: but she
turns
A look of hate upon the flower that
burns
To break and
pour her out its precious dew.
And slowly all the blossom shuts in
pain,
And all the lotus buds of love sink
over
To die unopened: when my moon-faced
lover,
Kind on the
weight of suffering, smiles again.