TELEPATHY 
67 
 
We slew the victim rightfully :   
 We tore his soul to tatters, 
Still laughing through the tragedy— 
 We knew that nothing matters !   
 
Yea ;  fitted that strange play of Pan 
For Gods and fiends ;  but not for man !   
 
 
Unless—unless—unless—unless 
 Our priestly hands were steaming 
With other life (sweet murderess !) 
 That his that lay there screaming 
Between our knives—Or blood !  confess 
 The truth ;  or am I dreaming ?   
 
Yea ;  floating on that cold pale flood 
Were two red stars of our own blood. 
 
 
We left our laugh, a smouldering coal 
 Upon his naked middle :   
We ravelled out his love ;  we stole 
 His heart-strings for our fiddle :   
Strange tortured music from his soul 
 We wrung, a writhing riddle !   
 
Yea :  our mouths took a subtle curve 
As we devoured him nerve by nerve. 
 
 
We danced, obscenely delicate, 
 The dance of cup and thyrsus ;