Stop for a moment and let me hear

The wail of the night-wind across the desolate town,

And shivers of the trees on the lawn.

A pigeon plaintively croons from her cote in the tower;

Or is it the night mourning the dead moon?

Yes, the moon is dead!

The sky has drawn a shroud across her face–

A dark cloud-fabric–

The huddled town-shape stands bleak in sorrow;

The night-wind wails:

Touch me not now,

There’s a wound in my heart no caress can heal;

No, do not speak; only hear.

The shriek that rises from the depths of despair

No kiss can smother.

How can I tell you what I and the earth know?

That flesh our flesh––the moon is dead!