bunch yourself between my knees and lie still. Lie on me with a hot, plumb, live weight, heavy as a stone, passive, yet hot, waiting. What are you waiting for? What are you waiting for? What is the hot, plumb weight of your desire on me? You have a hot, unthinkable desire of me, bunny. What is that spark glittering at me on the unutterable darkness of your eye, bunny? The finest splinter of a spark that you throw off, straight on the tinder of my nerves! It sets up a strange fire, a soft, most unwarrantable burning a bale-fire mounting, mounting up in me.       'Tis not of me, bunny. It was you engendered it, with that fine, demoniacal spark you jetted off your eye at me. I did not want it, this furnace, this draught-maddened fire which mounts up my arms making them swell with turgid, ungovernable strength.       'Twas not I that wished it, that my fingers should turn into these flames avid and terrible that they are at this moment. It must have been your inbreathing, gaping desire that drew this red gush in me; I must be reciprocating your vacuous, hideous passion. It must be the want in you that has drawn this terrible draught of white fire up my veins as up a chimney. It must be you who desire this intermingling of the black and monstrous fingers of Moloch in the blood-jets of your throat. Come, you shall have your desire, since already I am implicated with you in your strange lust. 

  

  

 PARADISE RE-ENTERED 

      THROUGH the strait gate of passion, Between the bickering fire Where flames of fierce love tremble On the body of fierce desire:       To the intoxication, The mind, fused down like a bead, Flees in its agitation The flames' stiff speed:       At last to calm incandescence, Burned clean by remorseless hate, Now, at the day's renascence We approach the gate. Now, from the darkened spaces Of fear, and of frightened faces, Death, in our awful embraces Approached and passed by; We near the flame-burnt porches Where the brands of the angels, like torches Whirl,—in these perilous marches Pausing to sigh; We look back on the withering roses, The stars, in their sun-dimmed closes, Where 'twas given us to repose us Sure on our sanctity; Beautiful, candid lovers, Burnt out of our earthy covers, We 

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