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.