MIDWINTER MOON OVER THE CITY.
THE tarnished moon spins upward like a piece Cast by some starving loafer on a bar, To buy that poison which may give release An instant, from the weight of things that are.
'Mid the grey chill which makes the blood run slow, 'Mid intellectual women coarse and cold, 'Mid sentimental joy and silly woe, 'Mid all the misery of a land grown old:
Mid thin black clouds like ragged strips of crepe Upon a pauper's hearse, she makes her way; Bound to a wheel from which is no escape, Towards the dull grey mockery of a day.
A little nearer, then, that frozen death Which will conclude our childish discontent 'Gainst grim endurance of each painful breath Which, to this land of tears, the gods have sent.