O leading lady, elegized and hailed
As nothing else, we all live at your feet.
Yet roles of yours all different, but the same,
All flowers are yours, but you don’t need them.
You never do encores, you always leave.
You touch us all, but deeper touched are women.
Here on your temple is a sign of hare,
They do believe you feed some people’s madness.
The stage is yours in silent pantomime,
Your orchestra is tacit, enigmatic.
Dispassionate you are perceived, aloof,
But doors of mystery are also always silent.