The shorn moon trembling indistinct on her path,
Frail as a scar upon the pale blue sky,
Draws towards the downward slope; some sorrow hath
Worn her down to the quick, so she faintly fares
Along her foot-searched way without knowing why
She creeps persistent down the sky’s long stairs.
Some day they see, though I have never seen,
The dead moon heaped within the new moon’s arms;
For surely the fragile, fine young thing had been
Too heavily burdened to mount the heavens so!
But my heart stands still, as a new, strong dread alarms
Me; might a young girl be heaped with such shadow of woe?
Since Death from the mother moon has pared us down to the quick,
And cast us forth like thin, shorn moons, to travel
An uncharted way among the myriad thick
Strewn stars of unknown people, and luminous litter
Of lives which sorrows like mischievous dark mice chavel
To nought, diminishing each star’s glitter;
Since Death has delivered us utterly, stripped and white,
Since the month of childhood is over, and we stand alone,
Since the beloved, faded mother that set us alight
Is delivered out and pays no heed though we moan
In sorrow; since we stand in bewilderment, strange
And fearful to sally forth down the sky’s long range;
Let us not cry to her still to sustain us here,
Let us not hold her shadow back from the dark!
Oh, let us here forget, let us take the sheer
Unknown that lies before us, bearing the ark
Of the covenant onwards where she cannot go!
Let us rise and leave her now, she will never know.