The Cakewalk

In smoky lamplight of a Smyrna Cafe,
    He saw them, seven solemn negroes dancing,
    With faces rapt and out-thrust bellies prancing
    In a slow solemn ceremonial cakewalk,
    Dancing and prancing to the sombre tom-tom
    Thumped by a crookbacked grizzled negro
    squatting.
    And as he watched ... within the steamy twilight
    Of swampy forest in rank greenness rotting,
    That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strumming
    Set all his sinews twitching, and a singing
    Of cold fire through his blood - and he was dancing
    Among his fellows in the dank green twilight
    With naked, oiled, bronze-gleaming bodies swinging
    In a rapt holy everlasting cakewalk
    For evermore in slow procession prancing.