Classic Poem

Surely is Mortjoy of the luckiest.
Just think: a theatre all his own!
And there he rules, Prince of the Play,
A solitary monarch set up in papier mâche ,
Perpetual fixture of the Royal Box:
No need to saunter out in search of vassalage
Or the rare shows secreted from all eyes but his —
The lasting eyes, unblinking, of curiosity.
To his side come running the lost little wonders
That fell out of life, it seemed, into a giant nothing-hole —
The same that swallowed out of sight
The extra numbers on the clock
When the tired hours angrily intoned " No more to go!"
His theatre is a magic pocket: turn but the lights on,
And see! the tangled ceiling, historic plait
Of tales that never, never will be told —
Never will the tired hours hush this silent chatter,
Persistent gibberish safe from clock-sense.
Then, in the boxes close against the stage,
To make perfect-sure they play their self-same parts,
Sit the two evil geniuses of the boards,
Those who each night belie the happy endings
That rise absurdly from the aged spectacle
Like childish angels from decrepit death-beds.
And who would guess this virtuous dowager to be —
Stiffly ennobled in her vantage-seat —
The very queen of witches, the very hag of the play:
Where witchery and crime tatter each other
For the crooked joy of indestructibility —
These two crooked poles of fate between which
Stream the irritated files of outcast energies.
And who would know the worthy patron of the lower box,
Whose lofty stare bespeaks the Thespian connoisseur —
Who would detect the waggish villain there,
The same who makes the murderous bullets sing
Against the cotton witch whose bats squeak out of key.
What an interminable game it is! And to think
That everyone's gone home, the seats all empty,
The programmes fluttering idle (not read through to the end),
Ebony sticks, theatre glasses, the massive negro's trumpet,
The pearls of the marchioness, milord's opera-hat —
All left behind alive, like trappings of the dance
Still music-sped, though long the dancers lie asleep.
But the metaphor falls short, the truth is tidier:
This scene may not begin till everyone's at home —
A rule, this, clearly printed in the programme
Half-way down, just after " Time for life again".