Oh Moon, discreetly worshipped by our sires
Still riding through your high blue countries, still
Trailed by the shining harem of your stars
Old Cynthia, the lamp of our retreats ...

The lovers sleep open-mouthed! When they breathe
They show the white enamel of their teeth
The writer breaks his teeth on his work-sheets
The vipers couple under the hot hill

Dressed in your yellow hood, do you pursue
Your boy from night to dawn, till the sun climbs
Skyward, where dim Endymion disappears?

"I see your mother, Child of these poor times
Crushed to her mirror by the heavy years
She cunningly powders the breast that nourished you."