PIERROT
I did not ask Pierrot to come—And so, of course, Pierrot has come.To anyone who asks him inPierrot excuses will begin;And if you say you're not at homePierrot will come.
His face is white. But oh, his eyes!What eyes were ever more alive!The cap is black upon his head:Frail Columbine, perhaps, is dead,And Pierrot need no longer striveFor quips to keep her love alive.
I did not ask Pierrot to come.Along the panel of my doorI saw a slender shadow passLike wind-blown leaf, like moving grass,His heel-less slippers on the floorTripped airily inside my door.
I did not ask Pierrot to come.But in his hand he held a rose—The rose was faded, his caressHad kissed its red to tiredness. . .And now my heart beats quick. It knowsThat it must break if Pierrot goes!
