Pierrot

            O SOME there are who bury deep
            Lost joy in a grave far out of sight,
            Saying, “O trouble me not, but sleep
            In silence by day and night.”

            But I have left my joy to stray
            Alive in the wood of my Delight,
            Where the thrush and the linnet sing by day
            And the nightingale by night.

            But I—I wander away, away
            Far down where the high road stretches white,
            And I laugh and sing for the crowd by day
            And weep for my heart by night.

            I wait for the Hour when Death shall say:
            “O come to the wood of thy Delight,
            Where thy Love shall sing to thee all the day
            And lie on thy breast all night.”

                                                              ALTHEA GYLES