Turn, turn again,
Ape’ s blood in each vein!
The people that pass
Seem castles of glass,
The old and the good
Giraffes of the blue wood,
The soldier, the nurse,
Wooden-face and a curse,
Are shadowed with plumage
Like birds, by the gloomage.
Blond hair like a clown’ s
The music floats — drowns
The creaking of ropes,
The breaking of hopes,
The wheezing, the old,
Like harmoniums scold;
Go to Babylon, Rome,
The brain-cells called home,
The grave, new Jerusalem —
Wrinkled Methusalem!
From our floating hair
Derived the first fair
And queer inspiration
Of music, the nation
Of bright-plumed trees
And harpy-shrill breeze...
*
Turn, turn again,
Ape’ s blood in each vein!