BEHIND the footlights hangs the rusty baize, A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze Of flaring gas, and curious eyes that gaze. The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride, Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride. Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards; O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords: The simplest skill is all its space affords. The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, The local hit at follies of the day, The trick to pass an idle hour away, -- For these no trumpets that announce the Moor, No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure, -- A single fiddle in the overture! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE by PHILIP FRENEAU HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 13. ENVOI, 1919 by EZRA POUND SONNET: 57 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS by MARIA ABDY AIR: 'CAPTAIN JINKS' by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS SONNET by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |