I. Springing Jack Green wooden leaves clap light away, Severely practical, as they Shelter the children candy-pale, The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . . The showman's face is cubed clear as The shapes reflected in a glass Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost's speech Fumbling for space from each to each). The fusty showman fumbles, must Fit in a particle of dust The universe, for fear it gain Its freedom from my cube of brain. Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace Behind my crude-striped wooden face As I, a puppet tinsel-pink Leap on my springs, learn how to think— Till like the trembling golden stalk Of some long-petalled star, I walk Through the dark heavens, and the dew Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through. This poem is in the public domain. |
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