Poems (Tree)/I Think Myself

by Iris Tree

I THINK myselfThe fool of tragedy strutting upon the stageWhere murder creeps and whispers.The jester clad in piebald tightsHalf black, half golden, with no companySave bells that jingle,And an effigy,The grinning image painted like myselfUpon a stick. . . .

I think myselfThe fool of comedy mournfully strayingAmid the revellers,Loving the moon and my own shadowWith its strange solemn gestures—Loving the painted moonThat lets me play with shadows.

I am the jester on an empty stagePlaying a pantomimeTo spectres in the stalls,Listening at lastFor ghostly mirth and phantom hands applauding,And for some king with decadent tired fingersTo fling a white gardenia at my feet.

1918