And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine Burned like the ruby fire set In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.
Oscar WildeAnd alien tears will fill for him pity's long broken urn. For his mourners will all be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn.
Oscar Wilde