The moon's a peck of corn. It lies Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the path And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain And beat me till I'm sore. Some day I'll break the halter-rope And smash the stable-door,
Run down the street and mount the hill Just as the corn appears. I've seen it rise at certain times For years and years and years.
The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms Are wreathed around her brow.
The Moon-Worms are a doughty race: They eat her gray and golden face. Her eye-sockets dead, and molding head: These caverns are their dwelling-place.
The Moon-Worms, serpents of the skies, From the great hollows of her eyes Behold all souls, and they are wise: With tiny, keen and icy eyes,
Behold how each man sins and dies. When Earth in gold-corruption lies Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies On cyclone wings will reach this place —
Yea, rear their brood on earth's dead face. The Moon's a snowball. See the drifts Of white that cross the sphere. The Moon's a snowball, melted down
A dozen times a year. Yet rolled again in hot July When all my days are done And cool to greet the weary eye
After the scorching sun. The moon's a piece of winter fair Renewed the year around, Behold it, deathless and unstained,
Above the grimy ground! It rolls on high so brave and white Where the clear air-rivers flow, Proclaiming Christmas all the time
And the glory of the snow! The dim-winged spirits of the night Do fear and serve me well. They creep from out the hedges of
The garden where I dwell. I wave my arms across the walk. The troops obey the sign, And bring me shimmering shadow-robes
And cups of cowslip-wine. Then dig a treasure called the moon, A very precious thing, And keep it in the air for me
Because I am a King. The moon's a holy owl-queen. She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till evening,
Then sallies forth to war. She pours the owls upon us. They hoot with horrid noise And eat the naughty mousie-girls
And wicked mousie-boys. So climb the moonvine every night And to the owl-queen pray: Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees
For her to take away. And never squeak, my children, Nor gnaw the smoke-house door: The owl-queen then will love us
And send her birds no more. Come, eat the bread of idleness, Come, sit beside the spring: Some of the flowers will keep awake,
Some of the birds will sing. Come, eat the bread no man has sought For half a hundred years: Men hurry so they have no griefs,
Nor even idle tears: They hurry so they have no loves: They cannot curse nor laugh — Their hearts die in their youth with neither
Grave nor epitaph. My bread would make them careless, And never quite on time — Their eyelids would be heavy,
Their fancies full of rhyme: Each soul a mystic rose-tree, Or a curious incense tree: Come, eat the bread of idleness,
Said Mister Moon to me. The moon is but a candle-glow That flickers thro’ the gloom: The starry space, a castle hall:
And Earth, the children's room, Where all night long the old trees stand To watch the streams asleep: Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds:
Good shepherds guarding sheep.
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