Streets, passing to and fro,
White as the flamelike snow,
Fruit of lips all aglow
As isles of the cherry
Or ruby-sweet berry
All plump sweet and merry.
Mantillas hide the shame
Of each duenna dame,
(Fans made of plumes of flame,)
Pelted with coral bells
Out of the orchard hells,
(Hail with sweet fruitage smells).
Now on the platform seen,
Hoofs clatter with the clean
Sound of a mandoline....
Under the tinsel sun,
See shadow-spiders run!—
Fatter than any bun,
Beelzebub in a chair
Sits on the platform there;
Candles like cold eyes stare.
“Master has got the gout,”
Adder-flames flare and spout
From his lips ... shadows rout.
Tiptoe the Barber crept,
On his furred black locks leapt.
Candles shrieked, flaring wept.
Barber takes up the shears....
“Fur for the shivering fears,
Cold in Hell these long years.”