THE CANNIBALS 
 
ALL night no change, no whisper.  Scarce a breath, 
But lips closed hard upon the cup of death 
To drain its sweetest poison.  Scarce a sigh 
Beats the dead hours out ; scarce a melody 
Of measured pulses quickened with the blood 
Of that desire which pours its deadly flood 
Through soul and shaken body ; scarce a thought, 
But sense through spirit most divinely wrought 
To perfect feeling ; only through the lips 
Electric ardour kindles, flashes, slips 
Through all the circle to her lips again, 
And thence, unwavering, flies to mine, to drain 
All pleasure in one draught.  No whispered sigh ; 
No change of breast ; love’s posture perfectly 
Once gained, we change no more.  The fever grows 
Hotter or cooler, as the night wind blows 
Fresh gusts of passion on the outer gate. 
But we, in waves of frenzy, concentrate 
Our thirsty mouths on that hot drinking cup, 
Whence we may never suck the nectar up 
Too often or too hard ; fresh fire invades 
Our furious veins, and the unquiet shades 
Of night make noises in the darkened room. 
Yet, did I raise my head, throughout the gloom 
 
 
3I