And though I cannot see his face,

 I shudder while I play.

 His shadow looms behind me here,

 Or capers at my side;

 And when I mouth my lines in dread,

 Those scornful lips deride.

 Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out,

 And startles me alone;

 While all my fellows, wondering

 At my stage-fright, play on.

 I fear that when my Exit comes,

 I shall encounter there,

36

 Stronger than fate, or time, or love,

 And sterner than despair,

 The Final Critic of the craft,

 As stage tradition tells;

 And yet—perhaps ’twill only be

 The jester with his bells.

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