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Poem by Sara Teasdale


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

Sara Teasdale's other poems:
  1. In the Metropolitan Museum
  2. The Broken Field
  3. Dew
  4. The Fountain
  5. Wild Asters

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