CAMOUFLAGE

HERE is the waving river line, and here A rail-road made (And here float lilies white as those that were Where Marsyas played.) The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planes For air ship raid (Yet—still steals up the hidden cirrus lanes The Huntress Maid!) The country road is gashed with lurid signs Of commerce-gods: (Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantines Hang votive pods!) The man who walks in front of me to work Has pointed ears (He speaks with modern emphasis and jerk So it appears)— But where he toils the chimneys range their pipes In Syrinx form (Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what types Of dancers swarm?) Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say “No one escapes—— ” (Ye Gods, Who is that smiling such a way Among the grapes?)