Look at the butterflies!

 Like floating flowers Came butterflies, the souls of summer hours, Fluttering about the van; Red Admirals rich, Scarlet and pale on breathing speeds of pitch, Brimstones, like yellow poppy petals blown, Brown ox-eyed Peacocks in their purpled roan, Blue, silvered things that haunt the grassy chalk, Green Hairstreaks bright as green shoots on a stalk, And that dark prince, the oakwood haunting thing [Pg 51]Dyed with blue burnish like the mallard's wing. "He was a saint of God," the showman cried. Meanwhile, within the town, from man to man The talk about the wondrous circus ran. All were agreed, that nothing ever known Had thrilled so tense the marrow in their bone. All were agreed, that sights so beautiful Made the Queen's court with all its soldiers dull, Made all the red-wrapped masts and papered strings Seem fruit of death, not lovely living things. And some said loudly that though time were short, Men still might hire the circus for the Court. And some, agreeing, sought the Mayor's hall, To press petition for the show's recall. But as they neared the hall, behold, there came A stranger to them dressed as though in flame; An old, thin, grinning glitterer, decked with green, With thready blood-streaks in his visage lean, And at his wrinkled eyes a look of mirth [Pg 52]Not common among men who walk the earth; Yet from his pocket poked a flute of wood, And little birds were following him for food.  "Sirs," said King Cole (for it was he), "I know You seek the Mayor, but you need not so; I have this moment spoken with his grace. He grants the circus warrant to take place Within the city, should the Prince see fit To watch such pastime; here is his permit. I go this instant to the Prince to learn His wish herein: wait here till I return."  They waited while the old man passed the sentry Beside the door, and vanished through the entry. They thought, "This old man shining like New Spain, Must be the Prince's lordly chamberlain. His cloth of gold so shone, it seemed to burn; Wait till he comes." They stayed for his return. Meanwhile, above, the Prince stood still to bide [Pg 53]The nightly mercy of the eventide, Brought nearer by each hour that chimed and ceased. His head was weary with the city feast But newly risen from. He stood alone As heavy as the day's foundation stone. The room he stood in was an ancient hall. Portraits of long dead men were on the wall. From the dull crimson of their robes there stared Passionless eyes, long dead, that judged and glared. Above them were the oaken corbels set, Of angels reaching hands that never met, Where in the spring the swallows came to build. It was the meeting chamber of the Guild. From where he stood, the Prince could see a yard 

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