The mask was played, the players gone:
Yussuf Ben Orem lingered on
And pondered o'er each mimic scene.
Each player and his mirrored mien.
Here strode a hero, there a knave,
A student gay, a pedant grave:,
In bright array or graver guise,
A mask o'ermastering the eyes.
A mask that hath in him no part.
Who dons it but as bid by art,
And doffs it knowing it but naught
And touching not his inner thought.
So far so true, all men agree.
And yet refuse, alas, to see
That all our sorrow, sin, and strife
Are only masks belying life.
Dost think all true that meets thine eyes?
Awake, thou dreamer, and be wise.
Armor makes not the warrior brave,
Nor garb the priest or prophet grave.
No more 'tis flesh which makes the man:
With wiser eye thy brother scan.
And thou shalt see the true man stand
As perfect as the Father planned.
