POETRY.
AT THE THEATRE.
ON the stage an acted horror,
A King crime-haunted to death ; Around me glitter and glare, And fans that harry an air That stifles me breath by breath ; And eyes all one way gazing
On the magical master-player, Whose face, chameleon-wise, Reflects all moods that arise,—
Craft, crime, and credulous prayer.
I gaze, and listen,—but sudden I dream in midst of the play ; And the King may threaten or whine, It seems no matter of mine,— I am twenty miles away, Down in a mossy dingle, Where sinless, a stranger to pain, And friend to all winds that blow, And hearing the fresh herbs grow, And feeling the dew or the rain, A slight wind-flower is hiding, Green-scarfed, white-faced as the snow The young year's earliest child, That I found last morn growing wild, And spoke with, and left it to grow.
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