|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.