PIERROT IN HALF-MOURNING.

I THAT am Pierrot, pray you pity me!

To be so young, so old in misery:

See me, and how the winter of my grief

Wastes me, and how I whiten like a leaf,

And how, like a lost child, lost and afraid,

I seek the shadow, I that am a shade,

I that have loved a moonbeam, nor have won

Any Diana to Endymion.

Pity me, for I have but loved too well

The hope of the too fair impossible.

Ah, it is she, she, Columbine: again

I see her, and I woo her, and in vain.

She lures me with her beckoning finger-tip;

How her eyes shine for me, and how her lips

Bloom for me, roses, roses, red and rich!

She waves to me the white arms of a witch

Over the world: I follow, I forget

All, but she'll love me yet, she'll love me yet!