The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun
Blistered and scorched, and, stagnant on the sea,
They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
Save in the breeze that came not: savagely
They glared upon each other—all was done,
Water, and wine, and food—and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.