Pierrot
PIERROT stands in the garden,
Beneath a waning moon,
And on his lute he fashions
A fragile silver tune.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
He thinks he plays for me,
But I am quite forgotten
Under the cherry tree.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
And all the roses know,
That Pierrot loves his music,--
But I love Pierrot.
Sara Teasdale’s other poems:
922
