The moon's ashine; by many a lane
Walk wistful lovers to and fro;
It must be like old days again;
How they do love! Here lies Pierrot.
She loved me once, did Columbine.
It sets my dusty heart aglow
Merely to lie and dream how fine
Her semblance was,—Here lies Pierrot!
Her perfumed presence, silks and lace,
Did madden men and wrought them woe;
For me alone her witching grace.
Where is she now? Here lies Pierrot.
We two walked once beneath the moon—
Yellow it hung and large and low—
And listened to the tender tune
Of nightingales,—Here lies Pierrot!
Our foolish vows of passion shook
The very stars, they trembled so.
How it comes back, her soft, shy look,
Now I am dead! Here lies Pierrot!
These other men and maids who stroll
Through moonlit poplar trees arow,
Does each play, the enchanted rôle
We phantoms played? Here lies Pierrot!
O joy that I remember yet
Sweet follies of the long ago!
Dear heaven, I would not quite forget!
The moon's ashine; Here lies Pierrot!
—Richard Burton