“All that is important,” the jester laughed,
“cannot be told.” And the bells jingled
a merry tune upon his hat,
and we laughed at Fool and his ponderous lies–
for this one mimed the king himself.
“Cannot be written down,” and down
he sprawled to wild guffaws
“All poets are fools and mad beside
to think,” and here he turned three hand springs
of wild delight, “that ought they write,
and ought it is, can tell the wise
one wit.” And then he smiled so wittingly
and juggled three balls for our applause.
“There is only experience.” Then he flung the balls
to me, but the balls fell through my hands–
and how we laughed at my expense.
“But poets never learn,” he cried,
and as I laughed, he whispered,
“nor will you.”