In door-way where the lilac blows,
Humming a little wandering air,
I make my shroud and no one knows,
So shimmering fine it is and fair.
PIERROT
For Aubrey Beardsley's picture "Pierrot is dying."
Pierrot is dying;
Tiptoe in,
Finger touched to lip,
Harlequin,
Columbine and Clown.
Hush! how still he lies
In his bed,
White slipped hand and white
Sunken head.
Oh, poor Pierrot.
There's his dressing-gown
Across the chair,
Slippers on the floor. . . .
Can he hear
Us who tiptoe in?
Pillowed high he lies
In his bed;
Listen, Columbine.
"He is dead."
Oh, poor Pierrot.
THE MONK IN THE GARDEN
He comes from Mass early in the morning
The sky's the very blue Madonna wears;
The air's alive with gold! Mark you the way
The birds sing and the dusted shimmer of dew
On leaf and fruit? . . . Per Bacco, what a day!