Part 73 (1/2)

”Very bad smell here, bwana! Pull me out quickly!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

L'ENVOI

The dry death-rattle of the streets asserts a joyless goal-- Re-echoed clang where traffic meets, And drab monotony repeats The hour-enculare, twin tawdry sha star Where puppet-show and printed lie, Victim and trapper and trap, deny Old truths that always are

So fare ye, fare ye well, old roofs!

The syren warns the shore, The flowing tide sings overside Of far-off beaches where abide The joys ye know no more!

The salt sea spray shall kiss our lips-- Kiss clean fro days With news of far-seen water-ways All war fair

They've cast the shore-lines loose at last And coiled the wet hemp down-- Cut picket-ropes of Kedar's tents, Of time-clock task and square-foot rents!

Good luck to you, old town!

Oh, Africa is calling back Alluringly and low And few they be who hear the voice, But they obey--Lot's wife's the choice, And we o!

So fare ye, fare ye well, old roofs!

The stars and clouds and trees In place of you! The heaped thorn fire-- Delight for the town's two-edged desire-- For thrice-breathed breath the breeze!

For rureen for trodden brown For potted plant and measured lawn The view of the velvet veld at dawn!