SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN

THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM

When morning mingles with the gloom
On empty stage and twilit aisle,
She comes with rag and pan and broom
To work—­and dream awhile.

Illusion’s laughter, fancy’s tears,
The mimic loves of yesternight,
On empty stages of the years
Awake in the dim light.

She cannot sweep the phantoms out—­
How sweet the sobbing violin!—­
She cannot put the ghosts to rout—­
How pale the heroine!

Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!—­
’Tis only dust that fills her eyes—­
But he shall have his lovely bride
And she her paradise!

And she—­the broom falls from her hands,
And is it dust that fills her eyes?—­
Shall go with him to golden lands
And find her paradise!—­

The morning wrestles with the gloom
On silent stage and chilly aisle,
She takes her rag and pan and broom
To work—­and dream awhile!

THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR

The lady cannot sing a note,
There is a languor in her throat
Beyond all healing,
She does not act at all, it seems,
Except in early morning dreams—­
She lacks the feeling.

Her feet are pretty, but methinks,
The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx
Could trip as lightly—­
And yet she is a regular,
Serene and well established star
Who twinkles nightly.

And Solomon for all his stir,
Had not a single jewel on her,
Nor did his capers
Procure him even half the space
For publication of his face
In ancient papers.

Her gowns, her furs, her limousines
Would catch the eye of stately queens
In any city—­
She cannot sing, or dance or act,
But then I have remarked the fact—­
Her feet are pretty.

THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER

A moment since, the office boy,
Invisible as Night itself,
Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf
And tasted peace, without alloy.

Secure from all the day’s alarms,
Of boss and bell the very jinx,
He gazed immobile as the Sphinx
On pompous front and painted charms.

Now out of interstellar space,
Beyond the sunlight and the storm,
Appears that lightning-laden form,
That toothful smile, that cryptic face.

Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?—­
He was so hid from mortal eyes,
Perhaps he fell from paradise,
Perhaps they chased him out of hell.

But now his heels show everywhere,
A dozen doors are opened wide,
He stands before, behind, beside,
He fills the ether and the air.

Far quicker than a wink or beck,
Far sleeker than a juvenile,
He barely tops the giant smile
That wreathes his forehead and his neck.