“Tournez, Tournez, Bon Chevaux De Bois”

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!