Classic Poem

I AM Pierrot, and was born
On some February morn
When through glistering rain shone down
The full moon on Paris town.
(Ah the moonshine in my head!)

For, upon the fatal minute
When the moon's heart changes in it
And the tides their flow reverse,
I, for better or for worse,
Born was. (Better been born dead
Than with moonwork in my head!)

Clown stood foster, but another
Got me of Clown's wife my mother,
And as suited my poor station,
Thieving was made my profession:
Doorsteps often were my bed
(Frosty moonshine in my head).

Yet while Pierrot was a thief—
Miracle beyond belief,
Chance fantastic as divine!—
I fell in with Columbine:
Dark eyes, lips of mournful red
(Dark-bright moonshine in my head).

At the corner of the street
She and I by night would meet;
Met, but never told our love,
While th' ironic moon above
In her reverie smiled, and shed
Tranquil radiance round each head.

Till my father by a breath
Stifled at the hands of Death,
“—Since no other children were—
Assigned me as only heir.”
(Silver sequins heaped and spread:
Billowing silver in my head.)

So, in search of fitting knowledge,
Poor Pierrot was sent to college,
Where Pantaloon and Pantaloon
In answerless riddles o' the moon
Crammed more moonshine in his head.

Home, then, Pierrot by-and-by
Hurried spent, resolved to sigh
Headache, heartache, and the rest,
Out on Columbine's white breast,
White as the moon's cloudy bed
(Hush the moonshine in my head).

But, while gone, had entered in
Spangled, smiling Harlequin;
Laughter cynic and unholy;
“Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!”
Turned but not a word I said
(Moons like swords within my head!)

Forth: but money burns so bright!
Let it burn, then, left and right:
“Where, O where, is Punchinello?
Scaramouch too, that gay fellow?
A brisk life it is we'll lead:
Drown the moonshine in my head!”

Midnight: Venus by an urn,
Roses and rose lanterns burn,
Wine, fount's purl, and mandoline. . . .
Pulcinella waits within,
Faithless she—but in her bed:
No more moonlight in my head!

Ah! …
yet dawns a dreary morrow:
‘Spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,’
With light purse to her begone,
If but as a hanger-on!
(Dread and moonlight in my head.

Home then: catch upon the way—
‘Harlequin fled yesterday.
Bankruptcy of his employ.’
Surging of relief and joy:
Welcome then? past words unsaid?
Surge of moonlight through my head.

So on, beating, to her street:
What sight Pierrot's eyes doth greet?
One coach at her door arrives,
From the back another drives. . . .
Strange! (mere moonlight in the head).

Pull the bell: is she within?
‘I must see Miss Columbine.’
Maid with finger laid by nose,
Better not inquire too close—
Such puts bullets through the head!

Now I wander back and forth;
Pierrot goes east, south, west, north;
Shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders,
Till the more acute beholders,
Watching him, have hazarded,—
‘Touch of something in the head?’

I am Pierrot, and was born
On some far forgotten morn
When the cold moon on the pane
Struck and, signless, 'gan to wane,
When the tides their flow reversed;
And I bear, uncured, accursed,
Aching until I am dead,
Moonlight, moonlight in my head!