The poem
Crazed through much child-bearing The moon is staggering in the sky; Moon-struck by the despairing Glances of her wandering eye We grope, and grope in vain, For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead! When she in all her virginal pride First trod on the mountain's head What stir ran through the countryside Where every foot obeyed her glance! What manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon, Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem But slender needles of bone; Blenched by that malicious dream They are spread wide that each May rend what comes in reach.