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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.
About This Poem
"At the Fair" was published in Coterie in 1919.
Edith Sitwell was born on September 7, 1887, in Scarborough, North Yorkshire, England. Her books include Bucolic Comedies (Duckworth, 1923) and The Sleeping Beauty (Duckworth, 1924). She died on December 9, 1964.
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