I am the play,
I am its heart and brain,
I am the spirit's creature,
moved by fancy,
ruled by cosmic signs.
It is not mine
to quarry omens,
but to probe men's hearts
and minds, not least my own,
where I must rove
hot battlefields,
and pace beleagured bastions
where clouds hang grey,
and spy on grottoes
flowing with ambrosia
where fountains play,
venturing abroad
with soul aflame
and feet of clay.
I have spent evenings
in such colloquies
as to confound my confreres
and amaze time's slaves,
I have assayed the sinews
in the hand that wields the blade,
and wept to look on ruin
and my loved ones slain,
my land betrayed.
I tell you that the stage
is my poor breast,
riven with splendour, strife.
I am this mere mortal thing
of blood and flesh,
of rage and pain.
I have built my dwelling
on the sands,
for I so loved the sea,
and I have launched my boats,
crewed by audacious knaves,
upon the waves.
It now remains to wait
for the encroaching tide,
the rains...