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 :