GREEN wooden leaves clap light away From the young flowers as white as day, -- Clear angel-face on hairy stalk; (Soul grown from flesh, an ape's young talk.) 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 box 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, Then like the trembling golden stalk Of some long-petalled star, I walk Through the dark heavens, until dew Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through. |