The Fool

The Fool

Appearing in his way to move to death

A precipice before him in hairs breadth

The white rose in his hand held high

Will he fall down, or will he fly

And step out into space, beyond all

As he strides forward, dainty, tall

To walk perhaps upon the very air

This is his mystery, his wondrous flair

His wallet on his stick, his head upraised

Here is the cipher, the fool, and we amazed

At motley harlequin who comes and goes

And never reveals, and never shows.