No pause! The buried pipes ring out,
The flour-faced Antic runs from sight;
Now Columbine, with scarlet pout,
Floats in the smoking moon of light.
Now programmes wave, heads bend between—
The roaring Years go past in file.
Soon there's the Transformation Scene—
And then the Footmen down the aisle.
For you must wait, before you leave
This Theatre of Varieties,
Their frozen fingers on your sleeve,
Their most respectful 'Now, sir, please!'
Out in the night, the Carriage stands,
Plumed with black trees. The Post-boys grin.
The Coachman beats upon his hands.
Turn after Turn goes on within.
Kenneth Slessor's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Next Turn by Kenneth Slessor )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Like an old-fashioned tradition, Kamini Arichandran
- Where are we?, Pintu Mahakul
- Gazing up the sky, Seira LNlee94
- no one has ever done good without....., RIC S. BASTASA
- the night deepens, RIC S. BASTASA
- to begin with....., RIC S. BASTASA
- who is someone in your mind?, RIC S. BASTASA
- try sipping this, RIC S. BASTASA
- the reason why i am still a part of you, RIC S. BASTASA
- the dream for peace, RIC S. BASTASA