I, brave Prince Fortinbras, who close this tragic pother, enter to say my phrase. Brief is my role and slight. I march upon the son, having o'erleapt the mother. Emotion's at the full and horror at its height. I come with trump of gold to terminate the play. Alone, for that vast horde, my army, comes not. Bah! What would you? In the gloom of the flies they lose their way, and wander in the wings. At last! Taratata! My blue cloak, since it drags, with blood is doubtless weighed. The curtain a quick veil to my useful phrase affords, hiding the stalwart fists of my army that I aid, I, brave Prince Fortinbras, to haul upon the cords. Elsinore doth reappear. O stoutly tug the strings! And at my side Shakespeare is pulling in the wings. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMMENDATORY VERSE FOR THE FAERIE QUEENE by H. B. TO WISDOM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNET OF LIFE by ERNEST BENSHIMOL TO A DISCIPLE OF WILLIAM MORRIS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE MASACRE AT SCIO by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. ANDROMETA by EDWARD CARPENTER |