James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
November 19The Dead Player
By John James Meehan
“O
How light the words are said!
Each year the olden circle narrows down;
The shadows gather less,
The shoulders fewer press,
Upon the shield that guards the actor’s crown.
A flitting memory,
A tear for love, a prayer for home, a smile
That these have made to come
In hearts to music dumb,
Is kinder deed engraved on tomb or pile?
When last the prompter calls,
Upon our eyes may grow another scene,
Where all the players gray
Shall fill the misty day,
With songs in woodland valleys soft and green.