Part 9 (2/2)

You are lovely, your face is soft Like a flower in bud On a mountain croft.

This is Noel for me.

To-night is a woman born Of the man in me.

_RABBIT SNARED IN THE NIGHT_

WHY do you spurt and sprottle like that, bunny?

Why should I want to throttle you, bunny?

Yes, bunch yourself between my knees and lie still.

Lie on me with a hot, plumb, live weight, heavy as a stone, pa.s.sive, 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 pa.s.sion.

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 l.u.s.t.

_PARADISE RE-ENTERED_

THROUGH the strait gate of pa.s.sion, 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:

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