Bacchanal
Into the twilight of Trafalgar Square
They pour from every quarter, banging drums
And tootling penny trumpets—to a blare
Of tin mouth-organs, while a sailor strums
A solitary banjo, lads and girls
Locked in embraces in a wild dishevel
Of flags and streaming hair, with curdling skirls
Surge in a frenzied reeling panic revel.
Lads who so long have stared death in the face,
Girls who so long have tended death's machines;
Released from the numb terror shriek and prance—
And, watching them, I see the outrageous dance,
The frantic torches and the tambourines
Tumultuous on the midnight hills of Thrace.
They pour from every quarter, banging drums
And tootling penny trumpets—to a blare
Of tin mouth-organs, while a sailor strums
A solitary banjo, lads and girls
Locked in embraces in a wild dishevel
Of flags and streaming hair, with curdling skirls
Surge in a frenzied reeling panic revel.
Lads who so long have stared death in the face,
Girls who so long have tended death's machines;
Released from the numb terror shriek and prance—
And, watching them, I see the outrageous dance,
The frantic torches and the tambourines
Tumultuous on the midnight hills of Thrace.
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