My circus is defunct, but when it ran,
its three rings stood for putting on its shows.
At center ring was Yeats, that mountain's man,
who in widening circles riding goes,
and back again, as slowly as he can.
These gyres are the base of what he knows.
His ring is the most noble and most old,
and if he falls, the center cannot hold.

The second ring, the East, containing Joyce,
prepares to give the act another go.
His talent is in symbols; in low voice
he plants seeds where epiphanies will grow;
and in this ring a train will stand for choice,
and eternity finds meaning in the snow.
As row by row he goes, his crop will make
the pattern that will follow in his wake.

The final ring, so obvious, is Frost;
his skill is knowing every man by name.
In his insights the audience is lost;
they feel his friendship, prompted not by fame,
but only by the smile that they're tossed.
Perhaps I sense reunion of the game;
my circus may be found once more to play,
the second I am shown what I should say.