THE play is Life; and this round earth br The narrow stage whereon br We act before an audience br Of actors dead and gone. br br There is a figure in the wings br That never goes away, br And though I cannot see his face, br I shudder while I play. br br His shadow looms behind me here, br Or capers at my side; br And when I mouth my lines in dread, br Those scornful lips deride. br br Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out, br And startles me alone; br While all my fellows, wondering br At my stage-fright, play on. br br I fear that when my Exit comes, br I shall encounter there, br Stronger than fate, or time, or love br And sterner than despair, br br The Final Critic of the craft, br As stage tradition tells; br And yet—perhaps 'twill only be br The jester with his bells.