Poems (Cromwell)/The Actor-Soldier

by Gladys Cromwell

THE ACTOR-SOLDIER

On the grass I'm lying,
My blanket is the sky;
This feeling is called dying.

No one will testify
They saw me suffer this;—
There's no one passing by.

The wonder of it is,
I'm by myself at last
With plain realities.

No one is here to cast
A part for me to play;
My term of life is past.

No one is here to see
How I can meet and take
This end;—how gallantly—

Though the ice that binds a lake
Must weigh less heavily
Than Death to my soul awake.

I must have thirsted, indeed,
For pity, then love, then praise;
For to win them, in every deed,
I endeavoured all my days.

The Soldier and the Son
Were my seductive parts;
But I could act the clown,—
Draw laughter from dumb hearts.

The Soldier part was my best,—
'Twas my last and my favourite.
Every gift that I possessed
I displayed for their benefit.
Who are They? On my breast
Weighs the infinite.

Ah, yes, I appeared heroic,
Unflinching, true and brave;
I wore the look of a stoic;—
All hurts I forgave.

But now on the grass I turn
To ease a little the pain;
It is not too late to learn.

Last night I lay in the rain
Until my body was numb,
Hearing like a refrain:

"O Masquerader, come!"
And even like a drum
It beat into my brain:
"O Masquerader, come!"