ON the grass I'm lying, My blanket is the sky; This feeling is called dying. No one will testify They saw me suffer this; -- There's no one passing by. The wonder of it is, I'm by myself at last With plain realities. No one is here to cast A part for me to play; My term of life is past. No one is here to see How I can meet and take This end; -- how gallantly -- Though the ice that binds a lake Must weigh less heavily Than Death to my soul awake. I must have thirsted, indeed, For pity, then love, then praise; For to win them, in every deed, I endeavoured all my days. The Soldier and the Son Were my seductive parts; But I could act the clown, -- Draw laughter from dumb hearts. The Soldier part was my best, -- 'Twas my last and my favourite. Every gift that I possessed I displayed for their benefit. Who are They? On my breast Weighs the infinite. Ah, yes, I appeared heroic, Unflinching, true and brave; I wore the look of a stoic; -- All hurts I forgave. But now on the grass I turn To ease a little the pain; It is not too late to learn. Last night I lay in the rain Until my body was numb, Hearing like a refrain: "O Masquerader, come!" -- And even like a drum It beat into my brain: "O Masquerader, come!" |