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

by Richard Wilbur
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