Bright wooden waves of people creak
From houses built with coloured straws
Of heat; Dean Pappus’ long nose snores
Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.
The wooden waves of people creak
Through the fields all water-sleek.
And in among the straws of light
Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight.
Whence he lies snoring like the moon
Clownish-white all afternoon.
Beneath the trees’ arsenical
Sharp woodwind tunes; heretical--
* * *
Blown like the wind’s mane
(Creaking woodenly again).
His wandering thoughts escape like geese
Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,
And clouds of wool join the bright race
For scattered old simplicities.
“TOURNEZ, TOURNEZ, BON CHEVAUX DE BOIS”
TURN, turn again,
Ape’s blood in each vein!
The people that pass
Seem castles of glass,
