In The Wings

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