No more for thee the music and the lights,
Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;
For thee, o dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.
No more the sea of faces, turned to thine,
Swayed by impassioned word and breathless pause;
No more the triumph of thine art — no more
The thunder of applause.
No more for thee the maddening, mystic bells,
The haunting horror — and the falling snow;
No more of Shylock's fury, and no more
The Prince of Denmark's woe.
Not once again the fret of heart and soul,
The loneliness and passion of King Lear;
No more bewilderment and broken words
Of wild despair and fear.
And never wilt thou conjure from the past
The dread and bitter field of Waterloo;
Thy trembling hands will never pluck again
Its roses or its rue.
Thou art no longer player to the court;
No longer red-robed cardinal or king;
To-day thou art thyself — the Well-Beloved —
Bereft of crown and ring.
Thy feet have found the path that Shakespeare found,
Life's lonely exit of such far renown;
For thee, o dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.