She laughed at the black clown and then she flew A bird above us, on the wing Of her white arms; and you saw through A rent in the old tent, a patch of sky With one dim star. She flew, but not so high-- And then she did not fly; She stood in the bright moonlight at the door Of a strange room, she threw her slippers on the floor-- Again, again You heard the patter of the rain, The starving rain--it was this Thing, Summer was this, the gold mist in your eyes;-- Oh God! it dies, But after death--, To-night the splendour and the sting Blows back and catches at your breath, The smell of beasts, the smell of dust, the scent of all the roses in the world, the sea, the Spring, The beat of drums, the pad of hoofs, music, the dream, the dream, the Enchanted Thing! At first you scarcely saw her face, You knew the maddening feet were there, What called was that half-hidden, white unrest To which now and then she pressed Her finger tips; but as she slackened pace And turned and looked at you it grew quite bare: There was not anything you did not dare:-- Like trumpeters the hours passed until the last day of the Fair. In the _Place d’Armes_ all afternoon The building birds had sung “Soon, soon,” The shuttered streets slept sound that night, It was full moon: The path into the wood was almost white, The trees were very still and seemed to stare: Not far before your soul the Dream flits on, But when you touch it, it is gone And quite alone your soul stands there. Mother of Christ, no one has seen your eyes: how can men pray Even unto you? There were only wolves’ eyes in the wood-- My Mother is a woman too: Nothing is true that is not good, With that quick smile of hers, I have heard her say;-- I wish I had gone back home to-day; I should have watched the light that so gently dies From our high window, in the Paris skies, The long, straight chain Of lamps hung out along the Seine: I would have turned to her and let the rain Beat on her breast as it does against the pane;-- Nothing will be the same again;-- There is something strange in my little Mother’s eyes, There is something new in the old heavenly air of Spring-- The smell of beasts, the smell of dust--_The Enchanted Thing!_