Pierrot in Half Mourning

I, that am Pierrot, pray you pity me!

To be so young, so old in misery:

See me, and how the winter of my grief

Wastes me, and how I whiten like a leaf,

And how, like a lost child, lost and afraid,

I seek the shadow, I that am a shade,

I that have loved a moonbeam, nor have won

Any Diana to Endymion.

Pity me, for I have but loved too well

The hope of the too fair impossible.

Ah, it is she, she, Columbine: again

I see her, and I woo her, and in vain.

She lures me with her beckoning finger tips,—

How her eyes shine for me, and how her lips

Bloom for me, roses, roses red and rich!

She waves to me the white arms of a witch

Over the world: I follow, I forget

All, but she'll love me yet, she'll love me yet.