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. )
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