In smoky limelight of a Smyrna cafe
He sees 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 crook-backed grizzled negro squatting.
And as he watches ... in the steamy twilight
Of swampy forest in rank greenness rotting,
That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strumming
Sets all his sinews twitching and a singing
Of cold fire through his blood — and he is 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.