 | 1. |
 | 4. |
|
|
| 5. |
| 7. |
| 6. |
 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
AN ACTOR
Some one ('tis hardly new) has oddly saidThe color of a trumpet's blare is red;
And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shame
On woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.
The more the red storm rises round her nose—
The more her eyes averted seek her toes,
He fancies all the louder he can hear
The tube resounding in his spacious ear,
And, all his varied talents to exert,
Deepens his dullness to display his dirt.
And when the gallery's applauding crowd,
And gentlemen below, with hisses loud,
In hot contention (these his art to crown,
And those his naked nastiness to drown)
Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflame
Grow white and in their fear forget their shame,
With impudence imperial, sublime,
Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time,
Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,
Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed.
80
One slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |