Where he sees others through a blurred hot notion

Of drunk and veined emotion,

And a red race runs through his seeing and hearing,

A great carouse of dreams seen each on each,

Till their importunate careering

A stopped, half-hurting point of mad joy reach.

XIV

The bridegroom aches for the end of this and lusts

To know those paps in sucking gusts,

To put his first hand on that belly's hair

And feel for the lipped lair,

The fortress made but to be taken, for which

He feels the battering ram grow large and itch.

The trembling glad bride feels all the day hot

On that still cloistered spot

Where only her nightly maiden hand did feign

A pleasure's empty gain.

And, of the others, most will whisper at this,

Knowing the spurt it is;

And children yet, that watch with looking eyes,

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