But in the Wine-press­es the human grapes sing not nor dance:
They howl and writhe in shoals of tor­ment, in fierce flames con­sum­ing,
In chains of iron and in dun­geons cir­cled with cease­less fires,
In pits and dens and shades of death, in shapes of tor­ment and woe:
The plates and screws and racks and saws and cords and fires and cis­terns
The cru­el joys of Luvah’s Daughters, lac­er­at­ing with knives
And whips their vic­tims, and the dead­ly sport of Luvah’s Sons.

They dance around the dying and they drink the howl and groan,
They catch the shrieks in cups of gold, they hand them to one anoth­er:
These are the sports of love, and these the sweet delights of amorous play,
Tears of the grape, the death sweat of the clus­ter, the last sigh
Of the mild youth who lis­tens to the lur­ing songs of Luvah.