A ball will bounce; but less and less. It's not br A light-hearted thing, resents its own resilience. br Falling is what it loves, and the earth falls br So in our hearts from brilliance, br Settles and is forgot. br It takes a sky-blue juggler with five red balls br br To shake our gravity up. Whee, in the air br The balls roll around, wheel on his wheeling hands, br Learning the ways of lightness, alter to spheres br Grazing his finger ends, br Cling to their courses there, br Swinging a small heaven about his ears. br br But a heaven is easier made of nothing at all br Than the earth regained, and still and sole within br The spin of worlds, with a gesture sure and noble br He reels that heaven in, br Landing it ball by ball, br And trades it all for a broom, a plate, a table. br br Oh, on his toe the table is turning, the broom's br Balancing up on his nose, and the plate whirls br On the tip of the broom! Damn, what a show, we cry: br The boys stamp, and the girls br Shriek, and the drum booms br And all come down, and he bows and says good-bye. br br If the juggler is tired now, if the broom stands br In the dust again, if the table starts to drop br Through the daily dark again, and though the plate br Lies flat on the table top, br For him we batter our hands br Who has won for once over the world's weight.