(Queer impulses of bestial kind,
Flesh indivisible from mind.)
I, painted like the wooden sun,
Must hand-in-hand with angels run—
The tinsel angels of the booth
That lead poor yokels to the truth
Through raucous jokes, till we can see
That narrow long Eternity
Is but the whip’s lash o’er our eyes—
Spurring to new vitalities.
XIII
THE APE WATCHES “AUNT SALLY”
THE apples are an angel’s meat,
The shining dark leaves make clear-sweet
The juice; green wooden fruits alway
Drop on these flowers as white as day—
Clear angel-face on hairy stalk;
(Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk.)
And in this green and lovely ground
The Fair, world-like, turns round and round,