Classic Poem

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.