THE moon’s a steaming chalice,
Of honey and venom-wine.
A little of it sipped by night
Makes the long hours divine.
But oh, my reckless lovers,
They drain the cup and wail,
Die at my feet with shaking limbs
And tender lips all pale.
Above them in the sky it bends
Empty and gray and dead.
To-morrow night ’tis full again,
Golden, and foaming red.
(Vachel Lindsay)
More Poetry from Vachel Lindsay:
- Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan (Vachel Lindsay Poems)
- An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie (Vachel Lindsay Poems)
- A Colloquial Reply: To Any Newsboy (Vachel Lindsay Poems)
- This Section is a Christmas Tree (Vachel Lindsay Poems)
- Sweet Briars of the Stairways (Vachel Lindsay Poems)
- The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly (Vachel Lindsay Poems)