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.