Slips to a hole that the most passionate hunter
Cannot smell out. Who knows that period,
Knows sweat that pours like rain, knows grief that locks
The joints, and, like one caught in a dark wood,
Fears his own breathing, his own furtiveness.
Some men there are,
Sweeten with wine that parching bitterness.
Some, blaming pity that it makes them human,
Turn from the pastures wisdom has made fair
To browse on the soft body of a woman.
Lie coldly and alone,
For if they lust
They hug a skeleton,
Nor will their thirst be stilled until they choke
On a long draught of dust.