Once it was packed like a box with the toys of childhood, 
Even the largest dolls grown small and familiar, 
And the cuckoo clock saying, 
"Tomorrow, tomorrow." 
Once it was sad and comic like Mr. Punch, 
And events jumped up, like Judy, to be whacked 
Over the head, and the greatest kings, like actors, 
Were happily at once dead and alive. 
Once it was apart 
As a crumbled castle on a darkening slope 
Half seen from the express. 
But whether it was tall as towers or 
Tumbled with playthings on the nursery floor, 
It was remote and faithful. 
History 
Coming too close 
Is monstrous, like a doll 
That is alive and bigger than the child 
Who tries to hold it. 
It is a clock that tolls the thirteenth hour. 
It is a theatre 
On fire. 
Our history 
Images not the castle but the train 
Emerging from the tunnel, ruining 
Down the embankment toward the modest station, 
Where it will lie like a box of toys, broken, 
Unpacked in vain.