 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE STRICKEN PLAYER
When at life's last the stricken player lies,When throng before his darkened, dreaming eyes
His soul's companions, which more real then—
The human comrades, the live women and men
Of the large world he knew, or the ideal
Imagined creatures his own art made real;
Wherein he poured his spirit's very being,
His soul and body? Are those dim eyes seeing
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And queens he wooed, the kings he was, or knew
Upon the tragic stage, are these the shades
That now his visionary hours pursue,
Attendant on his passing? Listen near!
What breathèd murmurs 'scape those pallid lips
To which the nations hearkened, ere the eclipse
Of all that brightness? Now lean close and hear;
Ah, see that look, sweeter than when he smiled
Upon the applauding world, while she draws near
And hears a dear voice whisper: “Child, my Child!”
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |