And in the rush of sun and glittering cloud That followed on the storm, he led the way, Fluting the sodden circus through the crowd That trod the city streets in holiday. And lo, a marvellous thing, the gouted clay, Splashed on the waggons and the horses, glowed, They shone like embers as they trod the road. And round the tired horses came the Powers That stir men's spirits, waking or asleep, To thoughts like planets and to acts like flowers, Out of the inner wisdom's beauty deep: These led the horses, and, as marshalled sheep Fronting a dog, in line, the people stared At those bright waggons led by the bright-haired. And, as they marched, the spirits sang, and all The horses crested to the tune and stept Like centaurs to a passionate festival With shining throats that mantling criniers swept. And all the hearts of all the watchers leapt To see those horses passing and to hear That song that came like blessing to the ear. And, to the crowd, the circus artists seemed Splendid, because the while that singing quired Each artist was the part that he had dreamed And glittered with the Power he desired, Women and men, no longer wet or tired From long despair, now shone like queens and kings, There they were crowned with their imaginings. And with them, walking by the vans, there came The wild things from the woodland and the mead, The red stag, with his tender-stepping dame, Branched, and high-tongued and ever taking heed. Nose-wrinkling rabbits nibbling at the weed, The hares that box by moonlight on the hill, The bright trout's death, the otter from the mill. There, with his mask made virtuous, came the fox, Talking of landscape while he thought of meat; Blood-loving weasels, honey-harrying brocks, Stoats, and the mice that build among the wheat, Dormice, and moles with little hands for feet, The water-rat that gnaws the yellow flag, Toads from the stone and merrows from the quag. And over them flew birds of every kind, Whose way, or song, or speed, or beauty brings Delight and understanding to the mind; The bright-eyed, feathery, thready-leggéd things. There they, too, sang amid a rush of wings, With sweet, clear cries and gleams from wing and crest, Blue, scarlet, white, gold plume and speckled breast. And all the vans seemed grown with living leaves And living flowers, the best September knows, Moist poppies scarlet from the Hilcote sheaves, Green-fingered bine that runs the barley-rows, Pale candylips, and those intense blue blows That trail the porches in the autumn dusk, Tempting the noiseless moth to tongue their musk.