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 mountains 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 blenched1， our fingers seem

But slender needles of bone；

Blenched by that malicious2 dream

They are spread wide that each

May rend3 what comes in reach.