I've known a Heaven, like a Tent — 
To wrap its shining Yards — 
Pluck up its stakes, and disappear — 
Without the sound of Boards
Or Rip of Nail — Or Carpenter — 
But just the miles of Stare — 
That signalize a Show's Retreat — 
In North America — 

No Trace — no Figment of the Thing
That dazzled, Yesterday,
No Ring — no Marvel — 
Men, and Feats — 
Dissolved as utterly — 
As Bird's far Navigation
Discloses just a Hue — 
A plash of Oars, a Gaiety — 
Then swallowed up, of View.