The Tears of Harlequin

Helt olikt mig själv har jag knappt spenderat någon tid alls framför datorn den här månaden. Kan det bero på att jag återigen har TV? Vilket innebär att månadens dikt blir lite förutsägbar. Av ren lathet googlade jag, av förklarliga skäl, Poetry+harlequin. Nedan ser ni resultatet; 

                                                            The tears of Harlequin.  

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 -- 

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. 

         But I have known his hour of sore defeat -- 

I -- 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; 

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; 

         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. 

                                                                                                               By Theodosia Garrison