Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917.
Theodosia Garrison
The Tears of Harlequin
T
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.
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—have known the tears of Harlequin.
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.
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.