At the Abbey Theatre

    When we are high and airy hundreds say

    That if we hold that flight they‘ll leave the place，

    While those same hundreds mock another day

    Because we have made our art of common things，

    So bitterly， you‘d dream they longed to look

    All their lives through into some drift of wings.

    You‘ve dandled them and fed them from the book

    And know them to the bone； impart to us—

    We‘ll keep the secret—a new trick to please.

    Is there a bridle¹ for this Proteus

    That turns and changes like his draughty seas？

    Or is there none， most popular of men，

    But when they mock us， that we mock again？