To the right the summer dawn <br />wakes the leaves and the mists <br />and the noises in this corner of the park, <br />and the left-hand banks <br />hold in their violet shadows <br />the thousand swift ruts of the wet road. <br /> <br />Wonderland procession! Yes, truly: floats covered <br />with animals of gilded wood, poles and bright bunting, <br />to the furious gallop of twenty dappled circus horses, <br />and children and men on their most fantastic beasts;-- <br />twenty rotund vehicles, decorated with flags <br />and flowers like the coaches of old or in fairy tales, <br />full of children all dressed up for a suburban pastoral. <br /> <br />Even coffins under their somber canopies <br />lifting aloft their jet-black plumes, <br />bowling along to the trot <br />of huge mares, blue and black.<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ruts/
