And run to revel in the loud World's Fair,
And straddled on the painted roundabouts,
Clapping our hands at clowns, and horns that blare;
O heart of mine, when it grows late, and all
The noisy tents flap dully on the grey
Shivers of evening, and the Showman locks
The clamorous booths, and sends the crowd away;
When we have found how terrible is age,
And how men piped for us to dance, and we
Danced, till we caught them laughing through the tune,