As if within a gallery
Of sculptures made of bone and skin,
Each life-made masterpiece I see
Intrigues and tempts me further in
Into the tale depicted there
Of comedy or crushing woe
Of valour or a lifelong care
Of journeys travelled, long and slow.
Upon what scenes have those eyes shone,
Eyes that are sleepy, filmy, dull?
What words, from throats forever gone,
Have those ears heard when they were full
Of cheering and singing as happy throngs,
Welcomed back heroes, for such they were,
Returning from righting worldwide wrongs?
And he thought only of His Her?
Each face we see conceals a life
That all would know if all could read
The hieroglyphs that Fortune’s knife
Carved to betoken every deed.
Remember then, when next you glance
At those whom you condemn as plain
Were they once leaders of the dance
And will we follow in their train?