When Pierrot Passes

High above his happy head     Little leaves of Spring were spread;     And adown the dewy lawn     Soft as moss the young green grass     Wooed his footsteps, and the dawn     Paused to watch him pass.     Even so he seemed in truth     Dancing between Love and Youth;     And his song as gay a thing     Still before him seemed to go     Light as any bird awing,     Blithe as jonquils in the Spring,     And we laughed and said, "Pierrot,     'Tis Pierrot."     "Oh," he sang, "Her hands are far     Sweeter than white roses are;     When I hold them to my lips,     Ere I dare a finer bliss,     Petal-like her finger-tips     Tremble 'neath my kiss.     And the mocking of her eyes     Lures me like blue butterflies     Falling--lifting--of their grace,     And her mouth--her mouth is wine."     And we laughed as though her face     Suddenly illumed the place,     And we said, "'Tis Columbine,     Columbine."