I think myself...

I think myself

The fool of tragedy strutting upon the stage

Where murder creeps and whispers.

The jester clad in piebald tights

Half black, half golden, with no company

Save bells that jingle,

And an effigy,

The grinning image painted like myself

Upon a stick....

I think myself

The fool of comedy mournfully straying

Amid the revellers,

Loving the moon and my own shadow

With its strange solemn gestures —

Loving the painted moon

That lets me play with shadows.

I am the jester on an empty stage

Playing a pantomime

To spectres in the stalls,

Listening at last

For ghostly mirth and phantom hands applauding,

And for some king with decadent tired fingers

To fling a white gardenia at my feet.