My life is like a music-hall, Where, in the impotence of rage, Chained by enchantment to my stall, I see myself upon the stage Dance to amuse a music-hall. 'Tis I that smoke this cigarette, Lounge here, and laugh for vacancy, And watch the dancers turn; and yet It is my very self I see Across the cloudy cigarette. My very self that turns and trips, Painted, pathetically gay, An empty song upon the lips In make-believe of holiday: I, I, this thing that turns and trips! The light flares in the music-hall, The light, the sound, that weary us; Hour follows hour, I count them all, Lagging, and loud, and riotous: My life is like a music-hall. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-DEPENDENCE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE EVENING STAR by THOMAS CAMPBELL THE CAGED GOLDFINCH by THOMAS HARDY COMFORT [TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE] by ROBERT HERRICK THE SWING by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON KENTUCKY BELLE by CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON TO HIS MISTRESS; AN ODE by ANACREON URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: THE SECOND CANTO, OR FIRST QUARTER by WILLIAM BASSE |