In what strange land, incomparable buffoon, Have you been impresario? I protest I know that accent and that turn of jest, Those features of a serio-comic moon, Those blunt brows, by a cubist sculptor hewn, Unwinking eyes, still roving without rest Full of quaint malice, soon to be expressed, That voice like the low notes of a bassoon. Oh, well -- too well -- have I beheld that smile Somewhere ere this, the passionless derision, Real and momentary as a vision. Where was it you performed the self-same role, While I fled trembling up an endless aisle In the queer theatre of my own soul? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUMMER NIGHT-BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER ON HIS BEING [OR, HAVING] ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE by JOHN MILTON THE RUINES OF TIME by EDMUND SPENSER THE DANUBE RIVER by C. HAMILTON AIDE THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S COMPLAINT by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK THE LEPRECAUN, OR THE FAIRY SHOEMAKER by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE GUERRILLA by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE INDIAN GONE! by JOSIAH D. CANNING A LITTLE WRINKLED SOUL OF LOVELINESS by WILLIAM BYRON CHARLES |