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THE HOUR-GLASS
And all day long they cry, 'Come hither, Fool.'
[The Fool goes close to him.
Or else it's, 'Fool, be gone.'
[The Fool goes further off.
Or, 'Fool, stand there.'
[The Fool straightens himself up.
Or, 'Fool, go sit in the corner.'
[The Fool sits in the corner.
And all the while
What were they all but fools before I came?
What are they now, but mirrors that seem men,
Because of my image? Fool, hold up your head.
[Fool does so.
What foolish stories they have told of the ghosts
That fumbled with the clothes upon the bed,
Or creaked and shuffled in the corridor,
Or else, if they were pious bred,
Of angels from the skies,
