Though all the critics' canons grow- <br />Far seedier than the actors' own- <br />Although the cottage-door's too low- <br />Although the fairy's twenty stone- <br />Although, just like the telephone, <br />She comes by wire and not by wings, <br />Though all the mechanism's known- <br />Believe me, there are real things. <br /> <br />Yes, real people-even so- <br />Even in a theatre, truth is known, <br />Though the agnostic will not know, <br />And though the gnostic will not own, <br />There is a thing called skin and bone, <br />And many a man that struts and sings <br />Has been as stony-broke as stone . . . <br />Believe me, there are real things <br /> <br />There is an hour when all men go; <br />An hour when man is all alone. <br />When idle minstrels in a row <br />Went down with all the bugles blown- <br />When brass and hymn and drum went down, <br />Down in death's throat with thunderings- <br />Ah, though the unreal things have grown, <br />Believe me, there are real things. <br /> <br /> ENVOY. <br /> <br />Prince, though your hair is not your own <br />And half your face held on by strings, <br />And if you sat, you'd smash your throne- <br />-Believe me, there are real things.<br /><br />Gilbert Keith Chesterton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-ballad-of-theatricals/
