| |
| TO you he gave his laughter and his jest, | |
| His words that of all words were merriest, | |
| His glad, mad moments when the lights flared high | |
| And his wild song outshrilled the plaudits’ din. | |
| For you that memory, but happier I— | 5 |
| I, who have known the tears of Harlequin. | |
| |
| Not mine those moments when the roses lay | |
| Like red spilled wine on his triumphant way, | |
| And shouts acclaimed him through the music’s beat, | |
| Above the voice of flute and violin. | 10 |
| But I have known his hour of sore defeat— | |
| I—have known the tears of Harlequin. | |
| |
| Light kisses and light words, they were not mine— | |
| Poor perquisites of many a Columbine | |
| Bought with his laughter, flattered by his jest; | 15 |
| But when despair broke through the painted grin, | |
| His tortured face has fallen on my breast— | |
| I—I have known the tears of Harlequin. | |
| |
| You weep for him, who look upon him dead, | |
| That joy and jest and merriment are fled; | 20 |
| You weep for him, what time my eyes are dry, | |
| Knowing what peace a weary soul may win | |
| Stifled by too much masking—even I— | |
| I, who have known the tears of Harlequin. | |
| |
