Act II, Scene 1

Enter Puck

Puck:

I see the night in the Master’s eyes

And open the lids when’er he cries.

He heeds the flights of too many hopes,

Bright visions in which truth barely copes.

He is a master, another I know

Whose mystery I act seldom to show.

From the brow of his thought, clear and keen,

Jewels of the crown must not be seen!

Tawny lion may growl, gruff and brave,

But with thin antelope is his grave;

The sinews of a tiger may pause

And tighten when a leaf is the cause

To fright! trembling with a light bird’s song;

On a branch a cobra slinks along;

Whittley-doo!  It’s a sailor’s cry

Over the sea in a lullaby,

Where seagulls shall fly, hover, and soar.

The jungle is a silly old shore,

Before the tempest smashes its gale

And the staunchest face turns long and pale . . .

Shh! his dreams are volcanoes of hell,

Aromas devils welcome to smell.

Twee, this law is seared within my heart:

Moments of glory must fall apart.

Before the others rend his spirit,

Their exquisiteness I will peer it!

Now is the moment I dance in pain

And retrieve his love with teardrops’ rain.