All the moon-shed nights are over,
And the days of gray and dun;
There is neither may nor clover,
And the day and night are one.
Not an hamlet, not a city
Meets our strained and tearless eyes;
In the plain without a pity,
Where the wan grass droops and dies.
We shall wander through the meaning
Of a day and see no light,
For our lichened arms are leaning
On the ends of endless night.
We, the children of Astarte,
Dear abortions of the moon,
In a gay and silent party,
We are riding to you soon.
Burning ramparts, ever burning!
To the flame which never dies
We are yearning, yearning, yearning,
With our gay and tearless eyes.
In the plain without a pity,
(Not an hamlet, not a city)
Where the wan grass droops and dies.
