The Puritan: Poem by Edward William Thomson

“I SHUN the theatre. It’s not the place,”


She said, “that I dislike—no—all the sights
Of Orchestra and Audience and the space
Of brilliancy and life are my delights
When people talk at ease between the Acts.
But, oh, the Stage, the piteous puppets there


Posturing, ranting, and without a share
In the quick farce and tragedy of Facts!—
Unless the essential horror of a Play
Is that bright beings in God’s image made
Should fume their little spans of strength away


In simulating fancied joy and grief
While really desperate that the mummers’ trade
Holds them from useful Work, the soul’s relief.”

Analysis of this poem