"Springing Jack"
di Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

Green wooden leaves clap fight 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 box of brain.
Yet dust hears 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.