Night Songs

I have minded me
Of the noon-day brightness,
And the cricket's drowsy
Singing in the sunshine...

I have minded me
Of the slim marsh-grasses
That the winds at twilight,
Dying, scarcely ripple...

And I cannot sleep.

I have minded me
Of a lily-pond,
Where the waters sway
All the moonlit leaves
And the curled long stems...

And I cannot sleep.

  For Aubrey Beardsley's picture "Pierrot is dying"

Pierrot is dying:
  Tiptoe in,
Finger touched to lip,
  Harlequin,
Columbine and Clown.

Hush! how still he lies
  In his bed,
White slipped hand and white
  Sunken head.
Oh, poor Pierrot.

There's his dressing gown
  Across the chair,
Slippers on the floor. . .
  Can he hear
Us who tiptoe in?

Pillowed high he lies
  In his bed;
Listen Columbine.
  "He is dead."
Oh, poor Pierrot.

Have you seen Angélique,
What way she went?
A white robe she wore,
A flickering light near spent
Her pale hand bore.

Have you seen Angélique?
Will she know the place
Dead feet must find,
The grave-cloth on her face
To make her blind?

Have you seen Angélique. .
At night I hear her moan,
And I shiver in my bed;
She wanders all alone,
She cannot find the dead.

I make my shroud but no one knows,
So shimmering fine it is and fair,
With stitches set in even rows.
I make my shroud but no one knows.

In door-way where the lilac blows,
Humming a little wandering air,
I make my shroud and no one knows,
So shimmering fine it is and fair.