II
DESIGN
If all the world’s a stage, why do we know
Naught of the drama we the actors play?
Are we but puppets, we who come and go
Mumbling our parts through life’s quick-passing day?
What if some master hand design the show
Planning a spacious pattern cunningly!
Time, color, drifting human shapes all go
Into a great discordant harmony:
Let this one’s part be cast in delicate grey,
Let this a heavy purple shadow be,
Here let there come one clear, cold, bluish ray
And here—but hold! one actor suddenly
In desperate rebellion cries his part—
A scarlet tumult from his own hot heart.