Music, more music for his soul's delight: Love is his lady for a summer's night.

[_PIERROT reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her side._]

PIERROT.

Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody?

THE LADY.

Pan made it long ago in Arcady.

PIERROT.

I heard it long ago, I know not where, As I knew thee, or ever I came here.

But I forget all things--my name and race All that I ever knew except thy face.

Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, That I may tell it like a rosary.

Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees, How art thou designate--art thou Heart's-Ease?

THE LADY.

Waste not the night in idle questioning, Since Love departs at dawn's awakening.

PIERROT.

Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state, Since thou art lovely and compa.s.sionate.

Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre.

THE LADY.

I am to each the face of his desire.

PIERROT.

I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, Who craves a refuge on the breast of love.

THE LADY.

What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon?

Until the c.o.c.k crow I may grant thy boon.

PIERROT.

Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star-- Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- Drawn by a team of milk-white b.u.t.terflies, Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades; Mount me beside thee, bear me far away From the low regions of the solar day; Over the rainbow, up into the moon, Where is thy palace and thine opal throne; There on thy bosom ----

THE LADY.

Too ambitious boy!

I did but promise thee one hour of joy.

This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, Could hardly be completed in a night.

Hast thou no craving less remote than this?

PIERROT.

Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?

THE LADY.

I say not that: yet prithee have a care!

Often audacity has proved a snare.

How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?

PIERROT.

As one who faints upon the Libyan plain Fears the oasis which brings life again!

THE LADY.

Where far away green palm trees seem to stand May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.

PIERROT.

Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.

THE LADY.

Dost thou persist?

PIERROT.

I do entreat this boon!

[_She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter._]

THE LADY.

Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?

PIERROT.

Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle!

Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream: But with its frost such sweetness did conspire That all my veins are filled with running fire; Never I knew that life contained such bliss As the divine completeness of a kiss.

THE LADY.

Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, Warning, as usual, has gone for naught.

PIERROT.

Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, To play the truant I were less inclined.

Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce-- I never knew a task by conning once.