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.”