Players

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.