Classic Poem

Exit the ribald clown
Enter like bubbling wine,
Lighter than thistledown,
Sweet little Colombine.

Whisht! and behold the game,
Long eyes and pointed chin
Paler than candleflame,
At her feet Harlequin.

Look how their shadows run,
Swift as she flies from him! —
Moths in the morning sun,
Out of a garden dim.

Faint through the fluttering
Fall of a flute divine,
Softly the 'cellos sing
" Colombine , Colombine ."

Softly the 'cellos sing:
" Colombine" . . .
" Colombine" . . .