Tumbling, pausing, leaping, knocking together,
but always in ranks and serries, grimly in order,
herded by wind aslant the insentient trees,
the cold cattle of heaven come down, come down.
Now they are dancing, swinging in perfect figures,
in perfect time, with a thousand subtle kinds
of counter-point and turn and counter-turn;
stars trail from their horns, leap from their shoulders.
Arm in glittering arm, the galaxies
wheel like fat grandes-dames at the whim of air,
waltz after wheezing waltz, night after night,
or Aling up their jewelled skirts and fall into bed.
The wind blows as he goes on his icy flute,
and numb, mindless, stumbling, willy nilly,
drunk on the stream of his music the cattle come,
reeling to left and right, and always, down.
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