Crazed through much child-bearing
the moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon-struck by the despairing
glances of her wandering eye
we grope, and grope in vain,
for children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead!
When she in all her virginal pride
first trod on the mountain's head
what stir ran through the countryside
where every foot obeyed her glance!
What manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon,
our hands are blenched, our fingers seem
but slender needles of bone;
Blenched by that malicious dream
they are spread wide that each
may rend what comes in reach.