All the world, all the lights,
congregate to one great stage.
For hours, for days, all our lives,
we dance the night away.
Once a year, we spend a lifetime
plunging into joyous uncertainty,
the careful carelessness
of another frantic dance.
But what’s this? What’s wrong?
My bones, my eyes, my frame
all are quietly reflecting on other things.
I’ll not dance tonight.
No, no I cannot tonight.
Saint Jane has me, and as you know,
she is no kind mistress.
I must attend to darker things.
I’m sorry, my love, so sorry.
I am uninformed, unprepared,
I cannot be where I am not now.
Another day, another day.
All the lights, but none of the world.
No joyous congregation to dream of.
If this place is the world, and the world a stage,
then where are all the actors?