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...A MAN CHILD IS BORN (1809) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE PLANTATION CHILD'S LULLABY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE VALSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE BLUE AND THE GRAY by FRANCIS MILES FINCH A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO by CHARLES LAMB THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM by GEORGE FREDERICK ROOT FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK; A.D. 1200 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |