By Candlelight

Houses red as flower of bean,

Flickering leaves and shadows lean!

Pantalone, like a parrot,

Sat and grumbled in the garret—

Sat and growled and grumbled till

Moon upon the window-sill

Like a red geranium

Scented his bald cranium.

Said Brighella, meaning well:

“Pack your box and—go to Hell!

Heat will cure your rheumatism!” . . .

Silence crowned this optimism—

Not a sound and not a wail:

But the fire (lush leafy vales)

Watched the angry feathers fly.

Pantalone ’gan to cry—

Could not, would not, pack his box!

Shadows (curtseying hens and cocks)

Pecking in the attic gloom

Tried to smother his tail-plume . . .

Till a cockscomb candle-flame

Crowing loudly, died: Dawn came.