Shall I go spoil the fantasy by prying
Behind the staging of this darling scene?
Shall I—a cast-off puppet—seek to study
The Showman who manipulates the strings,
The Hand that paints the western drop-scene ruddy,
The prosy truths of all these faery things?
Shall I—self-conscious by a glassy ocean—
Stammer strange songs amid an alien host?
Or shall I not, refusing such promotion,
Bequeath to London my contented ghost?