He or she who would direct
has first himself the scene to set...

      The 'pavilion' is a pavilion to
      a country bumpkin only.  The World's Fair
      has nothing to fear from it.  "Gazebo"
      is a better fit for this wood affair,
      this carved canopy that takes four firm
      beams to lift, to spread like butterfly wings
      (so fine!) and through which can still be seen
      the heaven of stars shining, all snugly
      sheltering the people.  A country band plays.
      Youngsters dance, square dances and round,
      but some sneak off to be alone in the grass,
      in bushes, by the railroad tracks.
      Time rushes by.  None can hold it back.

...and characters to beget
like children, labored long
and pained, and wet...

      Of my women, it may be said:
      "The young do fret, the old regret."
      Ask yourself, as you read on,
      who is most like you?

      One: Lana (the fiancée) --

            He's late.  I hate that.
            An important date,
            he makes it sound like,
            and he's late.  I could get
            to be an old maid
            waiting here for my beau,
            sipping sour lemonade,
            surrounded by bachelors,
            comp'ny officials in dark suits,
            all so punctual:  Mr. Luther
            with gold scissors (see how he cuts
            the red ribbon; what  ceremony!),
            and Mr. Edge, speaking so boldly
            about our future.  He's strutting
            my way.  Isn't he enchanting?
            ("Mrs. Kent?  Pardon me, ma'am, but
              I feel like dancing!")

      Two: Sarah (the widow, on whom
      the shadow surely falls,
      in gazeboes and dance halls) --

            Clark, if you were here
            like you're supposed to be
            I'd say, "I told you so."
            Can't expect to hold onto
            a girl like Lana Lang
            if you leave her standing.
            I hope it's for something
            important you're delayed.

            Well, will you look at that:
            City slickers square dance
            wors'n Baptists.
            "Play 'em a waltz, Walt,
             make 'em feel at home!"
            Hm?  Someone cutting in on them
            for the waltz?  Mr. Luther!?
            He's too old for her!
            Not enough in common
            just having the same color hair.
            I better stop this now
            before it gets anywhere.

      She gets up, a mite faint,
      short of breath and her chest sore.
      She chalks it up to...
      that pungent odor in the air.

            Someone burning something, that's all;
            got me a bit congested.
            I'm no invalid yet, and there's work
            to do:  Clark's got a lot invested
            in that girl.  "Pardon me, Lana, but,
            like it or not!, I'm cutting in!"

      Lana defers, and Sarah,
      like a good director,
      takes over.  (And the narrator
      now will do the same) --

They tell each other their names,
then round and round they go,
under the music's spell,
round and round they go
like the farmer and the dell.
He feigns caring well,
slowing their pace for her. 
Sweat trickles down her face
and she feels her limbs swell.
Later the rumor
will grow that he dropped her,
that they went round and round
until he couldn't recover
from a dip.  It isn't so.

Round and round they go,
but what's that acrid smell?
Round and round they go
'til, suddenly, she knows:
It is her own breath
and her blood on her lip
and on his neck.
One last spin
and the world grows dim:
Down and down she goes.

Down and down she goes,
round and round she goes --
that's the truth he'll tell.
Round and round she spun her gown
of simple fabric sewn; then
down and down, without a sound,
she broke the setting's spell.
Down and down, like round and round,
Sarah simply fell.  She fell.  That's all.