Circus! The gilded wagons; the great tent
blazing with light;
The scent of the trampled sawdust and ' Three
shilling seats to the right! '
A face that peers through the curtain to see how the
benches fill;
The rustle of feet in the gangways; the old expectant
thrill.
Out of the lost years' twilight, clad in their spangles
and gold,
Memory musters the riders that rode in the rings
of old-
Knights and jockeys and jesters, piebald ponies and
cream,
Fairies in satin and silver floating by in a dream.
Does the circle seem to us smaller that the cantering
horses keep?
Are they holding the big hoops lower where the
glittering ladies leap?
Ah ! well, there is one thing changeless the gods be
praised for that
The peal of a small boy's laughter when the clown
sits down on his hat.
