IN the fruit-ripe heat of afternoon
Each muslined school-child seems a moon;
And in the tents, those lazy waves
From out the echoing coral caves
Of light, like Venus from the sea
The clown seems, blond hair floating free.
The switchback, with its noisy run,
Is turning like the wooden sun
As he rides on his rocking-horse
All Struwwelpeter-haired; we course
On sands as moist as sugar-cane,
And the Fat Woman’s face and mane
Are sometimes dappled by the shade
Into the likeness of some maid
Long dead ... those golden shadows fell
On Cressid or Alaciel.
The beggar-tunes on horseback ride,
With cheeks as pink as Angels’,—glide
Through Babylon, Chicago, Troy,
And Black Man’s Land. Each golden boy