THE CRAZED MOON
 
 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.