‘The dust is whirling with the dust.’
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musician play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’, of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,
Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clock-work puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible Marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then turning to my love I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
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