When the pure act turns to drygoods
and the endless yearning
to an earned sum,
when payday comes:
the silly sniveling soul
had better run
stark naked to the woods
and dance to the beating drums.
Turning, turning,
call the dance out, master,
call out the silly soul.
Curtsy to your partner,
do-si-do.
Call out the comets, sister,
and dance the Great Year whole.
The only act that is its end
is the stars’ burning.
Swing your partner round and round,
turning, turning.