Declared, not like a child or an animal,
But with the clarity of a dead face,
The moon over the mountains. The dead dispense
Such indifferent radiance
On the dark; their smiling would appal.

Coops, barns, are shut, now there is none
In the fields. No spoor of what went galloping over the heavens
With the roar of fire. Poverty
Possesses the hills, the sky. Forgotten the glory
Of that hour when dying and living were one.

The All has shed the moon like a nail-paring.
Naked, it has the night for its mirror, there
We may watch it, moving beyond us, to what bed?
If it spoke, who could interpret what was said?
If it slept, who would lay by the strange clothes it was wearing?