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,