PIERROT SINGS
The earth lies stark in is dreary shroud—
As dead as the buds that flowered in May.
The moon is wrapped in a fleeting cloud:
Oh, for the sound of your voice!
You had love in your voice
So thrillingly true
That the pipes of Pan
Were an echo of you!
My heart grows cold in fright of the blast—
Like the cry of a loon in a haunted house
Is the voice of the wind as it rushes past:
Oh, for the clasp of your hand!
You had June in your heart,
And beauty so rare
That the roses of God
Bent low in despair.
My soul is numbed by the chill of the night;
A mourner lone on a lonely hill
I stand and watch a phantom light:
Oh, for the touch of our lips!
[285]
