All the World's a Stage
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
The mental words of a critical mind lash endlessly against this tired back.
That I, in some regard, might find myself alleviated - or there for lack
Of words, yet words are mine and mine alone;
A secret tome,
With rare solemn respite
Indeed, these words have I written and rewritten.
Upon my tongue and brain both smitten,
But I dared not let them breathe;
Lest my subtle arrogance precede
My mired thoughts and darkened soul
It is not for me to dream, for dreams have I;
Alcoves full and cups to fill the sky.
While stoic facade may appear but restrained,
indeed at times I feel constrained,
As if airy words are less treasured
I do so wish to find my part,
Through writer's pen or brilliant stroke of art.
But no tools have I to silence this longing -
As if a stubborn bell keeps calling,
Hurrying me from home
Stuck in tracks of difficult routine,
I confess I am no Houdini -
It is not for me but to come and go,
With naught but fields of dreams to grow;
A terrible way to live or die
Beneath these weighted words of heavy load I sleep,
A cold and battered blanket upon my burdened feet.
