 | English Roses |  |
THANATOS.
Give me more flesh,
I am a-hungered still
For lives of men cooked in their own red gravy;
And virgins fresh
Carved till their rose-dew spill,
With luscious lips and tresses gold and wavy.
My drowthy chaps are dry,
My lips agape
For warm sweet draughts of goodly human juices;
Come, let the bullets fly
And none escape,
Now war has opened wide its wounds and sluices.
I am a-hungered still
For lives of men cooked in their own red gravy;
And virgins fresh
Carved till their rose-dew spill,
With luscious lips and tresses gold and wavy.
My drowthy chaps are dry,
My lips agape
For warm sweet draughts of goodly human juices;
Come, let the bullets fly
And none escape,
Now war has opened wide its wounds and sluices.
These famished ribs
Are fretting for the wash,
Sweated by bleeding breasts in seas of slaughter;
Your baby cribs,
The dearest cannot quash
A raging lust that riots without quarter.
My mouth is but a tomb
Which nothing sates,
And (if you give it all) keeps wider growing;
Within its greedy womb
Lurk cruel hates,
That set the stream of strife for ever flowing.
Are fretting for the wash,
Sweated by bleeding breasts in seas of slaughter;
Your baby cribs,
The dearest cannot quash
A raging lust that riots without quarter.
My mouth is but a tomb
Which nothing sates,
And (if you give it all) keeps wider growing;
Within its greedy womb
Lurk cruel hates,
That set the stream of strife for ever flowing.
Hurry, my hounds
Of war, that gather fast
And cheer me with the music of your crying;
Despising bounds
And glories of the past,
Batten on bodies of the dead and dying.
Tear me the pleasant pulp
Of quivering frames,
And bury deep your fangs in heart and liver;
O for the gurgling gulp
Of tongues like flames,
While blood goes running like a merry river.
455
And cheer me with the music of your crying;
Despising bounds
And glories of the past,
Batten on bodies of the dead and dying.
Tear me the pleasant pulp
Of quivering frames,
And bury deep your fangs in heart and liver;
O for the gurgling gulp
Of tongues like flames,
While blood goes running like a merry river.
I listen long,
And weary for the joy
Of tortured sobs and sighs and breastbones cracking;
Be brave and strong
To ravin and destroy,
Mid wrath of fire and smoke and curse of sacking.
Ah, glut your savage thirst
With dreadful tears,
And dainty morsels and delicious marrow;
I go before you first
In shadowy fears,
To shake the lands that these shall haunt and harrow.
And weary for the joy
Of tortured sobs and sighs and breastbones cracking;
Be brave and strong
To ravin and destroy,
Mid wrath of fire and smoke and curse of sacking.
Ah, glut your savage thirst
With dreadful tears,
And dainty morsels and delicious marrow;
I go before you first
In shadowy fears,
To shake the lands that these shall haunt and harrow.
The time is late,
And I have fasted sore
While peace was hanging high its lazy laurels;
But now my Fate
Falls on the pampered store,
And finds its love and life in crimson quarrels.
Behold the destined hour,
Wherein I sup
Of murdered meats as once on fatted Abel;
Pay to my sceptred power
The gory cup,
And with fresh corpses pile my banquet table.
And I have fasted sore
While peace was hanging high its lazy laurels;
But now my Fate
Falls on the pampered store,
And finds its love and life in crimson quarrels.
Behold the destined hour,
Wherein I sup
Of murdered meats as once on fatted Abel;
Pay to my sceptred power
The gory cup,
And with fresh corpses pile my banquet table.
Bring me more slain
To feed this parching maw,
And give me thousands of the mute and mangled;
I feast on pain,
And lay no kinder law
Than choking breath and bosoms stilled and strangled.
Come, at each others' throats,
My victims, fly
And wreak the sins that may not be repented;
My passion thrives and gloats
On butchery,
And were I filled I were not thus contented.
To feed this parching maw,
And give me thousands of the mute and mangled;
456
And lay no kinder law
Than choking breath and bosoms stilled and strangled.
Come, at each others' throats,
My victims, fly
And wreak the sins that may not be repented;
My passion thrives and gloats
On butchery,
And were I filled I were not thus contented.
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