To The Nightshade

Sullen and sinister, darkly dull of leaf,
Thou rearest amid the brighter flowers,
Like a presage of evil in dreams of joyance-
Evil of beauty thy blossoms,
And purple like the agony of Death,
And their fruit as its livid consummation.
Such a flower art thou
As might spring from the rotting of ancient sin,
Its unavoidable latter confession,
Or from the corroded altar-stone,
Now merged with the blood of its victims-
A hideous and fruitful wedlock-
In some place of sacrifice to monstrous gods.