名人诗歌|Main Street and Other Poems(19)

The boom and blare of the big brass^{1 band is cheering to my heart And I like the smell of the trampled2 grass and elephants and hay. I take off my hat to the acrobat3 with his delicate, strong art, And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away.}

I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair, Who nonchalantly juggle^{4 death before a staring throng5. It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air And to cleave6 a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song.}

Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.

Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet^{7 and a knife, And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring, By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life； And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing.}

For the sculptor^{8 and the acrobat and the painter are the same. They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth, And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle9 world's acclaim10； For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.}

But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness, Who can never mingle^{11 the radiant hues12 to make a wonder live, Who can only show your little woe13 to the world in a rhythmic14 dress What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give？}

Well here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand, One is a giant, one a dwarf^{15, and one has a figured skin, And each is scarred and seared and marred16 by Fate's relentless17 hand, And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.}

You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look； You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear； Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book. O, poet of the broken heart, salute^{18 your brothers here！}