Come, would you be my playmate, what'd you say,
forever eager to join in the game?
To venture in the dark, during the day,
to play at being boss, a famous name,
to lord over it, at the head of the high table,
to fill the glasses with a prudent eye,
to fling your pearls, to prize the merest fable,
to put on shabby clothes, heaving a sigh?

To play at life, at everything, to weather
the autumn rains, the winters, dark and cold,
in silent evenings sipping tea together,
enveloped in the wafting steam of gold?
To live a full life, pure in every heartbeat,
to sit in silence, sometimes terrified,
while poor November, limps along the High Street,
like the roadsweeper, sickly, bleary-eyed,
and whistles, at our rattling window-panes.

Or will you play at birds, at dinosaurs,
at travelling, at trains or aeroplanes,
at dreams, at Christmas Eves or Lucky draws?
Say, would you live forever, in a game
that has become the real thing?
Would you play?