Players

And after all—and after all, Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears, Is life a reckless carnival? And are they lost, our golden years? Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago, Ere time could sear, or care could fret, There was a youth called Romeo, There was a maid named Juliet. The players of the past are gone; The races rise; the races pass; And softly over all is drawn The quiet Curtain of the Grass. But when the world went wild with Spring, What days we had! Do you forget? When I of all the world was King, And you were my Queen Juliet? The things that are; the things that seem— Who shall distinguish shape from show? The great processional, splendid dream Of life is all I wish to know. The gods their faces turn away From nations and their little wars; But we our golden drama play Before the footlights of the stars. There lives—though Time should cease to flow, And stars their courses should forget— There lives a grey-haired Romeo, Who loves a golden Juliet.