Classic Poem

(He that is Pierrot)


I think your soul goes clad in dominoes,
Haunting old gardens that are always June,
To sit within the shadow of a rose,
And strum and sing your every fragile tune.
For all we meet you where the great world rides,
You have no league with anything we are:
Your life is all entangled in the tides
Of goblin moons and musics and a star.

You talk to us of what the moment brings,
Of earnest men and worlds of work-a-day,
Of stocks and stores and half a hundred things,--
And all the while, your soul is leagues away,
Troubling old ghostly gardens where it goes,
Motlied with moonlight and your dominoes.