The Lady.
What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon?
Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon.
Pierrot.
Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car,
Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star—
Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,—
Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies,
Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids,
Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades;
Mount me beside thee, bear me far away
From the low regions of the solar day;
Over the rainbow, up into the moon,
Where is thy palace and thine opal throne;
There on thy bosom ——
The Lady.
Too ambitious boy!
I did but promise thee one hour of joy.
This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light,
Could hardly be completed in a night.
Hast thou no craving less remote than this?
Pierrot.
Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?
The Lady.
I say not that: yet prithee have a care!
Often audacity has proved a snare.
How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow—
Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?
Pierrot.
As one who faints upon the Libyan plain
Fears the oasis which brings life again!
The Lady.
Where far away green palm trees seem to stand
May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.
Pierrot.
Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught,
Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.
The Lady.
Dost thou persist?
Pierrot.
I do entreat this boon!
[She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter.]