Or I might work in hell His miracle. Changing from joy to tears, To quiet all the years, With icy rod, Like God. I might immortal be Even as He. Saying, as heaven saith, What Victory, Oh death, What sting can save, Oh grave? As I, alone and dumb, What doth not come Ever, He waits to see And surely, waiting, he Must pray ah pray! to die Even as I. THE SONG OF THE GAMBUCINOS. The little houses in the street And the warm blinds at night, Outside the copper on his beat And the moon so white, so white. They know what we shall never know, See what we cannot see, The steady lamplit ways that go To the quiet cemetery. They have not any fear at all Of life and of its end. They hear church bells, their children call, Their wife and death their friend. But for us the moon is white, so white It drowns us and it stings, And we must fly throughout the night Because of dangerous things. FEBRUARY 14. Let’s be done with talking, Words are half a snare, That fools use for stalking What was never there. Let’s be done with weeping, Tears are but a sign That a doom is creeping On what was divine. Why be broken-hearted? Time to break the heart If we should be parted And not care we part. Dear, the wind is over In the world outside. I was once your lover, You were once my bride. Let’s go out together. In the quiet air, We may find each other Waiting as we were. PIERROT. My friend Pierrot your sleeves are far too long. Look! I can hardly find at all your hands. And all your cotton tunic is cut wrong, And what your eyes mean no one understands. Ah yes, Pierrette, my sleeves are far too long. Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot find my hands, But better so than Pierrot did you wrong By telling you what no one understands. My friend Pierrot you fear to take the light, Look! I can hardly see at all your face. And what I see, Pierrot is very white. Are you afraid? Ashamed? or in disgrace? Ah yes, Pierrette, I dare not take the light. Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot see my face. My candle died with love, and in the night Oh! Harlequin, Pierrette, is my disgrace. My friend Pierrot it seems that things go ill With you. Look! I can hardly hear your word, And the dark shadow round grows darker still, And a new voice which is not yours is heard. Ah yes, Pierrette, it seems that things go ill. Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot hear my word. And the dark shadow which grows darker still Is death, Pierrette, of which you have not heard. THE DEAD MAN IN THE POOL.