The solid proof of former domicile.
Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,
Race memories of king and caravan,
High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.
Their voices rise ... the pine trees are guitars,
Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain...
Their voices rise ... the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars...
O singers, resinous and soft your songs