Classic Poem

OLD ACTOR

Any minor poet can claim
That his subject resembles music.
( " Her steps were notes of music. "
" His presence was like a song. " )
You are a long-neglected
Instrument from which the player,
With over-confident lips, blows only
A jet of dust that falls upon
The damp chagrin of his face.
Moist from the futile effort
He asks his listeners to admire
Imaginary notes.
They clap their hands, and he must retire
To the slow digesting of his lie.
Old actor, you have finished reciting Hamlet;
Your pennies are gathered; and you depart.