by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
In the still jungle of the senses lay
A tiger soundly sleeping, till one day
A bold young hunter chanced to come that way.
"How calm," he said, "that splendid creature lies!
I long to rouse him into swift surprise."
The well aimed arrow shot from amorous eyes,
And lo! the tiger rouses up and turns,
A coal of fire his glowing eyeball burns,
His mighty frame with savage hunger yearns.
He crouches for a spring; his eyes dilate—
Alas! bold hunter, what shall be thy fate?
Thou canst not fly; it is too late, too late.
Once having tasted human flesh, ah! then,
Woe, woe unto the whole rash world of men.
The wakened tiger will not sleep again.