The speaker is Columbine, a familiar figure from old Italian comic theatre and pantomime. She describes herself as something artificial, shaped by others: her face is “moulded,” her heart just “a bag of red tissue-paper.” The people who made and admire her seem needy and coarse, wanting only a pretty, tinkling object to comfort them. But Columbine is not as empty as they assume. Behind the painted face, she secretly sneers and winks at her “slinking masters,” mocking the way they spin her into poses. The mood is dry, detached, and quietly rebellious. She plays her role and then goes to sleep, while her creators are left sitting heavily, trapped in their own emptiness. It is a poem about being underestimated and finding a hidden power in watching those who think they control you.
Columbine Reflects — Summary
They have moulded my face with a tear and a sneer. They have sandalled me with caprice, And the heart they have given me Is a bag of red tissue-paper. Their loves are ragged and fat And seek the consolation Of a tinkling effigy! But even an effigy may wink An eye at its slinking masters! I can laugh at their frantic, tattered arms Spinning me into impish posturings, And jeer at the faces behind me! After my play I go to sleep, But they must sit, heavily looking at each other.