I love the Lotus-blossom when it lies
On the white bosom of a sleeping woman,
And falls and rises as the dreamer sighs,
For that love’s sake she yet has told to no man.
I love the Lotus-blossom, for it grows
On a lone grave beside a silent river;
There my youth’s mistress takes her last repose:
I loved, I hated, and I now forgive her.