THE PLAYER by PERCY MACKAYE

HIS wardrobe is the world, and day and night
His many-mirror'd dressing room: At dawn
He apes the elvish faun,
Or, garbed in saffron hose and scarlet shoon,
Mimics the madcap sprite
Of ever-altering youth; at chime of noon
He wears the azure mail and blazoned casque
Of warring knighthood; till, at starry stroke
Of dark, all pale he dons his "inky cloak"
And meditates — the waning moon his tragic mask.

His theatre is the soul, and man and woman
His infinite repertory: Age on age,
Treading his fancy's stage,
Ephemeral shadows of his master mind,
We act our parts — the human
Players of scenes long since by him designed;
And stars, that blaze in tinsel on our boards,
Shine with a moment's immortality
Because they are his understudies, free
For one aspiring hour to sound his magic chords.

For not with scholars and their brain-worn scripts,
Nor there behind the footlights' fading glow
Shakspere survives: ah, no!
Deep in. the passionate reality
Of raging life above the darkling crypts
Of death, he meditates the awed "To be
Or not to be" of millions, yet to whom
His name is nothing; there, on countless quests,
Unlettered Touchstones quibble with his jests,
Unlaureled Hamlets yearn, and anguished Lears uploom.

Leave, then, to Avon's spire and silver stream
Their memory of ashes sung and sighed:
Our Shakspere never died,
Nor ever was born, save as the god is born
From every soul that dares to doubt and dream.
He dreams — but is not mortal: eve and morn,
Dirge and delight, float from his brow like prayer.
Beside him, charmed Apollo lifts his lyre;
Below, the heart of man smoulders in fire;
Between the two he stands, timeless — the poet-player.

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