Circus by Margaret Stanley-Wrench

Saucer of sand, the circus ring,
A cup of light, clowns tumbling.
Horses with white manes sleek and streaming,
Bits jingling, tinkling, silk skins gleaming.

But there, shut in their iron cage,
Sulky, drowsy, dulled by rage,
The lions beg or trot or leap,
And cringe like beaten dogs, and creep,

King beasts, who should be free to run
Through the forests striped with shade and sun,
With fierce, proud eyes and manes like fire.
These manes hang dull like rusty wire.

And when the trainer cracks his whip
They snarl and curl a sullen lip,
And only in their dreams are free
To crush and kill man’s cruelty.

From: New Connect: Course, Book 6, 2003, Orient Longman Private Limited: Hyderabad, India, p. 85.
(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=lUA0hN–uKkC&pg=PA85&lpg=PA85&dq=publication+date+circus+margaret+stanley-wrench&source=bl&ots=sFfJndYuvc&sig=QxYuAoSYesGreeEIOWmZx5ob31g&hl=en&sa=X&ei=LQgBUN_JC6i9iAfm-LyqCA&ved=0CEgQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=publication%20date%20circus%20margaret%20stanley-wrench&f=false)

Date: ?

By: Margaret Stanley-Wrench (1916-1974)

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