The Light o’ the Moon

The moon's a peck of corn. It lies

Heaped up for me to eat.

I wish that I might climb the path

And taste that supper sweet.

Men feed me straw and scanty grain

And beat me till I'm sore.

Some day I'll break the halter-rope

And smash the stable-door,

Run down the street and mount the hill

Just as the corn appears.

I've seen it rise at certain times

For years and years and years.

The moon is but a golden skull,

She mounts the heavens now,

And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms

Are wreathed around her brow.

The Moon-Worms are a doughty race:

They eat her gray and golden face.

Her eye-sockets dead, and molding head:

These caverns are their dwelling-place.

The Moon-Worms, serpents of the skies,

From the great hollows of her eyes

Behold all souls, and they are wise:

With tiny, keen and icy eyes,

Behold how each man sins and dies.

When Earth in gold-corruption lies

Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies

On cyclone wings will reach this place —

Yea, rear their brood on earth's dead face.

The Moon's a snowball. See the drifts

Of white that cross the sphere.

The Moon's a snowball, melted down

A dozen times a year.

Yet rolled again in hot July

When all my days are done

And cool to greet the weary eye

After the scorching sun.

The moon's a piece of winter fair

Renewed the year around,

Behold it, deathless and unstained,

Above the grimy ground!

It rolls on high so brave and white

Where the clear air-rivers flow,

Proclaiming Christmas all the time

And the glory of the snow!

The dim-winged spirits of the night

Do fear and serve me well.

They creep from out the hedges of

The garden where I dwell.

I wave my arms across the walk.

The troops obey the sign,

And bring me shimmering shadow-robes

And cups of cowslip-wine.

Then dig a treasure called the moon,

A very precious thing,

And keep it in the air for me

Because I am a King.

The moon's a holy owl-queen.

She keeps them in a jar

Under her arm till evening,

Then sallies forth to war.

She pours the owls upon us.

They hoot with horrid noise

And eat the naughty mousie-girls

And wicked mousie-boys.

So climb the moonvine every night

And to the owl-queen pray:

Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees

For her to take away.

And never squeak, my children,

Nor gnaw the smoke-house door:

The owl-queen then will love us

And send her birds no more.

Come, eat the bread of idleness,

Come, sit beside the spring:

Some of the flowers will keep awake,

Some of the birds will sing.

Come, eat the bread no man has sought

For half a hundred years:

Men hurry so they have no griefs,

Nor even idle tears:

They hurry so they have no loves:

They cannot curse nor laugh —

Their hearts die in their youth with neither

Grave nor epitaph.

My bread would make them careless,

And never quite on time —

Their eyelids would be heavy,

Their fancies full of rhyme:

Each soul a mystic rose-tree,

Or a curious incense tree:

Come, eat the bread of idleness,

Said Mister Moon to me.

The moon is but a candle-glow

That flickers thro’ the gloom:

The starry space, a castle hall:

And Earth, the children's room,

Where all night long the old trees stand

To watch the streams asleep:

Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds:

Good shepherds guarding sheep.