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.

Auteur: Edith Sitwell