The moon will run all consciences to cover,
Night is now the easy peer of day;
Little boys no longer sight the
Streaked in the sky, and cattle
Warily out in search of misty hay.
Look at the blackbird, the pretty eager swallow,
The buzzard, and all the birds that
With the smooth essential
Of time through men, who fail.
For now the moon with friendless light
On hill and housetop, street and marketplace,
Men will plunge, mile after mile of men,
To crush this lucent madness of the face,
Go home and put their heads upon the pillow,
Turn with whatever shift the darkness cleaves,
Tuck in their eyes, and
The flying dark with sleep like falling leaves.
