Oracles

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