The Moon is Dead

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!