And white foam-people leap, to stand erect for the moment.
Ho! ye sails that seem to wander in dream-filled meadows,
Say, is the shore where I stand the only field of struggle,
Or are ye hit and battered out there by waves and wind-gusts
As ye tack over a clashing sea of watery echoes?
PHONOGRAPH—TANGO
Old dances are simplified of their yearning, bleached by Time.
Yet from one black disc