At the Fair By Edith Sitwell

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-

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.

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