By Victor James Daley


And after all -- and after all,
         Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears,
Is life a reckless carnival?
         And are they lost, our golden years?

Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago,
         Ere time could sear, or care could fret,
There was a youth called Romeo,
         There was a maid named Juliet.

The players of the past are gone;
         The races rise; the races pass;
And softly over all is drawn
         The quiet Curtain of the Grass.

But when the world went wild with Spring,
         What days we had! Do you forget?
When I of all the world was King,
         And you were my Queen Juliet?

The things that are; the things that seem --
         Who shall distinguish shape from show?
The great processional, splendid dream
         Of life is all I wish to know.

The gods their faces turn away
         From nations and their little wars;
But we our golden drama play
         Before the footlights of the stars.

There lives -- though Time should cease to flow,
         And stars their courses should forget --
There lives a grey-haired Romeo,
         Who loves a golden Juliet.

DayPoems Poem No. 897
<a href="">Players by Victor James Daley</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection,
Timothy Bovee, editor

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