"Well, Pierrot, mon bon ami, we Must don our chapeaux and be off! The sous dropped by the bourgeoisie Mean Italy to cure this cough. "In Italy they say the skies Are always cloudless, and the hills Are green; and nothing ever dies Except lost echoes from the rills. "And when for us life brighter grows, And you and I the past forget, And money through our fingers flows, We'll come to Paris for Monette. "Monette! Ah, Pierrot, hurry! I Am sure she waits us at the docks . . . It would be sweet, I think, to die If one's shroud were her raven locks . . ." And thus he dreamed and thus he talked The while he played for each poor sou. When winter came he lamely walked, His face was pinched, his lips were blue. And poor Monette grew wan with grief To see Pierre grow thin and white; And Pierrot trembled like a leaf As both starved through each killing night. They fished a body from the Seine, A frozen, bloated, staring boy; And dangling on a knotted chain, A monkey floundered like a toy. "Where is Pierre?" I asked. And he Who stripped the ragged clothing off Laughed as he said, "In Italy -- In Italy, to cure his cough!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 55 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE HATED by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON ENGLISH ENCOURAGEMENT OF ART (FIRST READING) by WILLIAM BLAKE AN OLD DREAM by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SONG OF THE DOVE by FREDRIKA BREMER MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN PASSION WEEK: MONDAY by JOHN BYROM |