THE SCREEN
Reading edition
From midnight till the following noon I stand in shadow, Just a splotch of white, Unnoted by the cleaning crew Who've spent their hours of toil That I might live again. Yet they hold no reverence for my charms, And if they pause amid their work They do not glance at me; All their admiration, all their awe, Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home That's built to house my wonders; Or for the gorgeous murals all around, Which really, after all, Were put in place as most lame substitutes, Striving to soothe the patron's ire For those few moments when my face is dark. Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me, And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach The tides of people flow to me. All things I am to everyone; The newsboys, shopgirls, And all starved souls Who've clutched at life and missed, See in my magic face, The lowly rise to fame and palaces, See virtue triumph every time And rich and wicked justly flayed. Old men are tearful When I show them what they might have been. And others, not so old, Bask in the sunshine of my fairy tales. The lovers see new ways to woo; And wives see ways to use old brooms. Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets. Then some there are who watch my changing face To catch new history's shadow As it falls from day to day. And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet, In time to music of the warring tribes, The shadow men across my face Seem living with the hope or dread Of those who watch them off to wars. In sordid substance I am but a sheet, A fabric of some fireproof stuff. And yet, in every port where ships can ride, In every nook where there is breath of life, Intrepid men face death To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world Lest I lose some charming facet of my face. And all the masters of all time Have thrummed their harps And bowed their violins To fashion melodies that might be played The while I tell my tales. O you who hold the mirror up to nature, Behold my cosmic scope: I am the mirror of the whirling globe.