You are white as the moths of Twilight,
You are secret as mist and dew,
And your down-dropped eyes
Are eternally wise,
Strange sins have wrought their hue.
Mother of men and women,
They are ghosts, not men you have bred;
In infinite scorn
Their bodies were born
While their souls were worse than dead.
We are what your lips have made us,
Empty, and bitterly old;
Our faith has lied,
Oh, barren bride,
And the fires of the world are cold.