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Lotus Hurt by the Cold

by D. H. Lawrence, 1916

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.

Published in Amores

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