And then in Spring for three days came the Fair Just as the planes were starting into bud Above the caravans: you saw the dancing bear Pass on his chain; and heard the jingle and the thud. Only four days ago They let you out of this dull show To slither down the _montagne russe_ and chaff the man _à la tête de veau_-- Hit, slick, the bull’s eye at the _tir_, Spin round and round till your head went queer On the _porcs-roulants. Oh! là là! la fête!_ _Va pour du vin, et le tête-a-tête_ With the girl who sugars the _quafres! Pauvrette_, How thin she was; but she smiled, you bet, As she took your tip--“One does not forget The good days, Monsieur.” Said with a grace, But _sacrébleu!_ what a ghost of a face! And no fun too for the _demoiselles_ Of the _pensionnat_, who were hurried past, With their _“Oh, que c’est beau--Ah, qu’elle est belle!”_ A lap-dog’s life from first to last! The good nights are not made for sleep, nor the good days for dreaming in, And at the end in the big Circus tent we sat and shook and stewed like sin! Some children there had got--but where? Sent from the south, perhaps--a red bouquet Of roses, sweetening the fetid air With scent from gardens by some far away blue bay. They threw one at the dancing bear; The white clown caught it. From St. Rémy’s tower The deep, slow bell tolled out the hour; The black clown, with his dirty grin Lay, sprawling in the dust, as She rode in. She stood on a white horse--and suddenly you saw the bend Of a far-off road at dawn, with knights riding by, A field of spears--and then the gallant day Go out in storm, with ragged clouds low down, sullen and grey Against red heavens: wild and awful, such a sky As witnesses against you at the end Of a great battle; bugles blowing, blood and dust-- The old _Morte d’Arthur_, fight you must--. It died in anger. But it was not death That had you by the throat, stopping your breath. She looked like Victory. She rode my way.