| 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. |
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| 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! |
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| 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. |