Bliss Carman (1861–1929)

WE are the players of a play

As old as earth,

Between the wings of night and day,

With tears and mirth.

There is no record of the land

From whence it came,

No legend of the playwright’s hand,

No bruited fame

Of those who for the piece were cast

On that first night,

When God drew up His curtain vast,

And there was light.

Before our eyes as we come on,

From age to age,

Flare up the footlights of the dawn

On this round stage.

In front, unknown, beyond the glare

Vague shadows loom;

And sounds like muttering winds are there

Foreboding doom.

Yet wistfully we keep the boards;

And as we mend

The blundering forgotten words,

Hope to the end

To hear the storm-beat of applause

Fill our desire,

When the dark Prompter gives us pause

And we retire.