Classic Poem

I see the marred Moon in the day:
How pale she is! She steals away.
Like a beast the stag-hounds track
She flies and never turneth back.
If I could know what she must know,
A shrieking maniac I would go.

What scenes she peers at in the night!
Many a loathsome, ghastly sight,
Frightful shows and deadly deeds,
Hateful crimes as common as weeds:
No wonder she is pale with fright.

She looks on horrid mysteries,
And never shuts her shrinking eyes:
She sees where the murdered corse is hid;
Where the miser opens his coffer's lid;
She hears the cries of the beaten wife;
She hears small children plead for life,

She knows the pity of lives of shame;
Every night she gazes on
Brutish acts without a name:
No wonder she is pinched and wan.

The Sun on many a crime looks down;
Many a crime in many a town;
Many a time he drinketh blood,
Evil he sees, and much of good.
But he is bold, and bright, and strong,
And thinks he knows the right of wrong;
He scatters his bounty everywhere,
And smiles with a hearty, devil-may-care —
A brave old optimist is he:
But the Moon is timid as she can be.
For all the treasure under the ground,
I would not find what she has found.

O Moon, you watched us on that night,
Lingering in your softened light:
Full-faced, wide-eyed, you saw us stand,
Heart to heart and hand to hand.
Flit on, flit on, o'er heaven's floor,
And carry on your lined face,
Until you wither in your place,
One secret more, one secret more.

Be the Judgment late or be it soon,
I know that the spirit of the Moon
Will stand as a witness at the rail,
And, shuddering, begin her tale;
Every secret open wide,
Naught forget and nothing hide:
But till that Dooming Day shall come,
The pale-faced coward must be dumb;
Till every evil be confessed,
She may not rest, she may not rest.