He slept as weary toilers do, She gazed up at the moon.
He stirred and said, "Wife, come to bed";
She answered, "Soon, full soon."
(Oh! that strange mystery of the dead moon's face.)Her cheek was wan, her wistful mouth Was lifted like a cup, The moonful night dripped liquid light:
She seemed to quaff it up.
(Oh! that unburied corpse that lies in space.)Her life had held but drudgery -
She spelled her Bible thro';
Of books and lore she knew no more Than little children do.
(Oh! the weird wonder of that pallid sphere.)Her youth had been a loveless waste, Starred by no holiday.
And she had wed for roof, and bread;
She gave her work in pay.
(Oh! the moon-memories, vague and strange and dear.)She drank the night's insidious wine, And saw another scene:
A stately room--rare flowers in bloom, Herself in silken sheen.
(Oh! vast the chambers of the moon, and wide.)A step drew near, a curtain stirred;
She shook with sweet alarms.
Oh! splendid face; oh! manly grace;
Oh! strong impassioned arms.
(Oh! silent moon, what secrets do you hide!)
The warm red lips of thirsting love On cheek and brow were pressed;As the bees know where honeys grow, They sought her mouth, her breast.
(Oh! the dead moon holds many a dead delight.)The speaker stirred and gruffly spake, "Come, wife, where have you been?"She whispered low, "Dear God, I go -
But 'tis the seventh sin."
(Oh! the sad secrets of that orb of white.)
