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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's other poems:
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