Lotus Hurt by the Cold

 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.

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