The Winged Beetle

68 TELEPATHY We made him love, we made him hate, We made him bless and curse us Yea, O my darling, we were Fate. Then how should Fate reverse us ? Yea, love ; how cruelly we played With the poor worm that we had made ! It cannot be (it cannot be !) That we ourselves are taken In the sweet snare, my Dorothy ! Did Love, true love, awaken ? And, even so, dear, why should we Be wildly wit-forsaken ? Yea ; for we digged a wanton pit. Ourselves are fallen into it. Our dance grew fierce—self-stirred, self-willed ! And Bacchus shewed his forehead Jutting sharp horns ; his grape distilled A liquor harsh and florid. Our cool sweet kisses throbbed and thrilled From temperate to torrid. Yea ; the new wine burns up our brain. Like molten gold our kisses rain. The month of love had curled our lips In tense perverted fancies :