And neither the posing, nor withering smile,
Of a smothered agonee,
Can ever confuse his rôle with the rôle
Of the actor now over the sea.
The play never plays, without crowding the ways
To that theatre we’ve named P.
And the lamps are not lit, ’ere the crowd at the pit
Are waiting for Wilson B.
And all the night long he is there with his stride
Of his youth, his beauty, in lime-light’s pride