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...WARPED FLOWER by SHEILA BARBOUR URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: THE FOURTH CANTO, OR LAST QUARTER by WILLIAM BASSE P. C., X, 36 by HENRY MAXIMILIAN BEERBOHM A CARNIVAL EPISODE by MATHILDE BLIND ZERO by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN AND IF THE SONG SHOULD DIE? by ANNIE HATCH BOORNAZIAN LOVE AND HOPE by FRANCIS BROOKS THE POET'S VOW by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING WRETTEN BY ME ON THE DEATH OF MY CHILD ROBERT PAYLER by MARY CAREY |