PLAINT OF PIERROT ILL-USED

I am Pierrot, and was born

On some February morn

When through glistering rain shone down

The full moon on Paris town.

( Ah the moonshine in my head! )

For, upon the fatal minute

When the moon's heart changes in it

And the tides their flow reverse,

I, for better or for worse,

Born was. ( Better been born dead

Than with moonwork in my head! )

Clown stood foster, but another

Got me of Clown's wife my mother,

And as suited my poor station,

Thieving was made my profession:

Doorsteps often were my bed

( Frosty moonshine in my head ).

Yet while Pierrot was a thief —

Miracle beyond belief,

Chance fantastic as divine!—

I fell in with Columbine:

Dark eyes, lips of mournful red

( Dark-bright moonshine in my head ).

At the corner of the street

She and I by night would meet;

Met, but never told our love,

While th’ ironic moon above

In her reverie smiled, and shed

Tranquil radiance round each head.

Till my father by a breath

Stifled at the hands of Death,

“— Since no other children were —

Assigned me as only heir.”

( Silver sequins heaped and spread:

Billowing silver in my head. )

So, in search of fitting knowledge,

Poor Pierrot was sent to college,

Where Pantaloon and Pantaloon

In answerless riddles o’ the moon

Crammed more moonshine in his head.

Home, then, Pierrot by-and-by

Hurried spent, resolved to sigh

Headache, heartache, and the rest,

Out on Columbine's white breast,

White as the moon's cloudy bed

( Hush the moonshine in my head ).

But, while gone, had entered in

Spangled, smiling Harlequin;

Laughter cynic and unholy:

“Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!”

Turned but not a word I said

( Moons like swords within my head! )

Forth: but money burns so bright!

Let it burn, then, left and right:

“Where, O where, is Punchinello?

Scaramouch too, that gay fellow?

A brisk life it is we'll lead:

Drown the moonshine in my head!”

Midnight: Venus by an urn,

Roses and rose lanterns burn,

Wine, fount's purl, and mandoline....

Pulcinella waits within,

Faithless she — but in her bed:

No more moonlight in my head!

Ah!... yet dawns a dreary morrow:

‘ Spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,’

With light purse to her begone,

If but as a hanger-on!

( Dread and moonlight in my head. )

Home then: catch upon the way —

‘ Harlequin fled yesterday.

Bankruptcy of his employ.’

Surging of relief and joy:

Welcome then? past words unsaid?

Surge of moonlight through my head.

So on, beating, to her street:

What sight Pierrot's eyes doth greet?

One coach at her door arrives,

From the back another drives....

Strange! ( mere moonlight in the head ).

Pull the bell: is she within?

‘ I must see Miss Columbine.’

Maid with finger laid by nose,

Better not inquire too close —

Such puts bullets through the head!

Now I wander back and forth;

Pierrot goes east, south, west, north;

Shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders,

Till the more acute beholders,

Watching him, have hazarded,—

‘ Touch of something in the head?’

I am Pierrot, and was born

On some far forgotten morn

When the cold moon on the pane

Struck and, signless,‘ gan to wane,

When the tides their flow reversed;

And I bear, uncured, accursed,

Aching until I am dead,

Moonlight, moonlight in my head!