How many times, like lotus lilies risen <br /> Upon the surface of a river, there <br /> Have risen floating on my blood the rare <br />Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison. <br /> <br />So I am clothed all over with the light <br /> And sensitive beautiful blossoming of passion; <br /> Till naked for her in the finest fashion <br />The flowers of all my mud swim into sight. <br /> <br />And then I offer all myself unto <br /> This woman who likes to love me: but she turns <br /> A look of hate upon the flower that burns <br />To break and pour her out its precious dew. <br /> <br />And slowly all the blossom shuts in pain, <br /> And all the lotus buds of love sink over <br /> To die unopened: when my moon-faced lover, <br />Kind on the weight of suffering, smiles again.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lotus-hurt-by-the-cold-2/
