<h2> The Big Top </h2>
<p>The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart<br/>
And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay.<br/>
I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art,<br/>
And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away.<br/>
<br/>
I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair,<br/>
Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng.<br/>
It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air<br/>
And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song.<br/>
<br/>
Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill<br/>
Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face<br/>
To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will<br/>
As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.<br/>
<br/>
Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife,<br/>
And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring,<br/>
By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life;<br/>
And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing.<br/>
<br/>
For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same.<br/>
They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth,<br/>
And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim;<br/>
For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.<br/>
<br/>
But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness,<br/>
Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live,<br/>
Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress —<br/>
What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give?<br/>
<br/>
Well — here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand,<br/>
One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin,<br/>
And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand,<br/>
And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.<br/>
<br/>
You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look;<br/>
You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear;<br/>
Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book.<br/>
O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here!<br/></p>
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