  in Everybody’s Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book UP among the chimneys tall Lay the garret of Pierrot. Here came trooping to his call Fancies no one else might know; Here he bade the spiders spin Webs to hide his treasure in. Here he heard the night wind croon Slumber-songs for sleepyheads; Here he spied the spendthrift moon Strew her silver on the leads; Here he wove a coronet Of quaint lyrics for Pierrette. But the bugles blew him down To the fields with war beset; Marched him past the quiet town, Past the window of Pierrette; Comrade now of sword and lance, Pierrot gave his dreams to France. |
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