Wrinkling with laughter that made no sound

In the high brass blare

An old man rode on the merry-go-round

At a country fair.

Duty all past, and past all hurt

Of his years four-score,

He rowelled the painted horse to spurt

One lap, and one more.

So round to the music, all wonder and wild,

Rode the piebald pair,

Overtaking and passing a country child

Who stood to stare.

Time and its angels could be outdone,

And tomorrow's wind,

With the right man mounted and good for the run;

And the old man grinned.

Let the night come on, and the world go wide.

Let the burying-ground

Be dug and be damned. He'd ride

On the merry-go-round,

On the merry-go-round.