At the Fair

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. II. The Ape Watches “Aunt Sally” The apples are an angel’s meat; The shining dark leaves make clear sweet The juice; green wooden fruits alway Fall on these flowers as white as day— (Clear angel-face on hairy stalk: Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk!) And in this green and lovely ground The Fair, world-like, turns round and round And bumpkins throw their pence to shed Aunt Sally’s wooden clear-striped head.— I do not care if men should throw Round sun and moon to make me go— As bright as gold and silver pence . . . They cannot drive their black shade hence!