In what strange land, incomparable buffoon,
Have you been impresario? I protest
I know that accent and that turn of jest,
Those features of a serio-comic moon,
Those blunt brows, by a cubist sculptor hewn,
Unwinking eyes, still roving without rest
Full of quaint malice not to be repressed,
That voice like the low notes of a bassoon.

Oh well — too well — have I beheld that smile
Somewhere ere this, the passionless derision,
Real and momentary as a vision.
Where was it you performed the self-same role,
While I fled trembling up an endless aisle
In the queer theatre of my own soul.