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End of the Comedy

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Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.

The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.
And here at our door
The moonlight is laid
Like a drawn sword.


Source: The New Adam (1918)

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This poem originally appeared in the May 1919 issue of Poetry magazine

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End of the Comedy

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