At the Theater

The sun was bright when we went in,

But night and lights were there,

The walls had golden trimming on

And plush on every chair.

The people talked; the music played,

Then it grew black as pitch,

Yes, black as closets full of clothes,

Or caves, I don't know which.

The curtain rolled itself away,

It went I don't know where,

But, oh, that country just beyond,

I do wish we lived there!

The mountain peaks more jagged rise,

Grass grows more green than here;

The people there have redder cheeks,

And clothes more gay and queer.

They laugh and smile, but not the same,

Exactly, as we do,

And if they ever have to cry

Their tears are different too—

More shiny, somehow, and more sad,

You hold your breath to see

If everything will come out right

And they'll live happily;

If Pierrot will kiss Pierrette

Beneath an orange moon,

And Harlequin and Columbine

Outwit old Pantaloon.

You know they will, they always do,

But still your heart must beat,

And you must pray they will be saved,

And tremble in your seat.

And then it's over and they bow

All edged about with light,

The curtain rattles down and shuts

Them every one from sight.

It's strange to find the afternoon

Still bright outside the door,

And all the people hurrying by

The way they were before!