THE play is Life; and this round earth <br />The narrow stage whereon <br />We act before an audience <br />Of actors dead and gone. <br /> <br />There is a figure in the wings <br />That never goes away, <br />And though I cannot see his face, <br />I shudder while I play. <br /> <br />His shadow looms behind me here, <br />Or capers at my side; <br />And when I mouth my lines in dread, <br />Those scornful lips deride. <br /> <br />Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out, <br />And startles me alone; <br />While all my fellows, wondering <br />At my stage-fright, play on. <br /> <br />I fear that when my Exit comes, <br />I shall encounter there, <br />Stronger than fate, or time, or love <br />And sterner than despair, <br /> <br />The Final Critic of the craft, <br />As stage tradition tells; <br />And yet—perhaps 'twill only be <br />The jester with his bells.<br /><br />Bliss William Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-wings/
