WHEN PIERROT PASSES

High above his happy head

Little leaves of Spring were spread;

And adown the dewy lawn

Soft as moss the young green grass

Wooed his footsteps, and the dawn

Paused to watch him pass.

Even so he seemed in truth

Dancing between Love and Youth;

And his song as gay a thing

Still before him seemed to go

Light as any bird awing,

Blithe as jonquils in the Spring,

And we laughed and said, “Pierrot,

‘ Tis Pierrot.”

“Oh,” he sang, “Her hands are far

Sweeter than white roses are;

When I hold them to my lips,

Ere I dare a finer bliss,

Petal-like her finger-tips

Tremble‘ neath my kiss.

And the mocking of her eyes

Lures me like blue butterflies

Falling — lifting — of their grace,

And her mouth — her mouth is wine.”

And we laughed as though her face

Suddenly illumed the place,

And we said, “‘ Tis Columbine,

Columbine.”