And hunger is a fearful thing.
It dwarfs the better part in man,
Naught but a withered husk it leaves
Of some thing that should live and breathe.
All nobler impulses turn ghosts,
Haunting waste places of the mind.
LI.
It lifts the knife to deadly thrusts,
It turns to brutes all those it sways,
It presses torches into fists,