Sir Henry Irving Poem by Virna Sheard

No more for thee the music and the lights,
Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;
For thee, 0 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, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.