Poetry Archives

Beneath my chamber window
Pierrot was singing, singing;
 I heard his lute the whole night thru
      Until the east was red.
Alas, alas Pierrot,
I had no rose for flinging
 Save one that drank my tears for dew
      Before its leaves were dead.
I found it in the darkness,
I kissed it once and threw it,
 The petals scattered over him,
      His song was turned to joy;
And he will never know—
Alas, the one who knew it!
 The rose was plucked when dusk was dim
      Beside a laughing boy.