He Slept As Weary Toilers Do, She Gazed Up At The Moon. He Stirred And Said, "Wife, Come To Bed"; She Answered, "Soon, Full Soon." (Oh! That Strange Mystery Of The Dead Moon'S Face.) Her Cheek Was Wan, Her Wistful Mouth Was Lifted Like A Cup, The Moonful Night Dripped Liquid Light: She Seemed To Quaff It Up. (Oh! That Unburied Corpse That Lies In Space.) Her Life Had Held But Drudgery - She Spelled Her Bible Thro'; Of Books And Lore She Knew No More Than Little Children Do. (Oh! The Weird Wonder Of That Pallid Sphere.) Her Youth Had Been A Loveless Waste, Starred By No Holiday. And She Had Wed For Roof, And Bread; She Gave Her Work In Pay. (Oh! The Moon-Memories, Vague And Strange And Dear.) She Drank The Night'S Insidious Wine, And Saw Another Scene: A Stately Room - Rare Flowers In Bloom, Herself In Silken Sheen. (Oh! Vast The Chambers Of The Moon, And Wide.) A Step Drew Near, A Curtain Stirred; She Shook With Sweet Alarms. Oh! Splendid Face; Oh! Manly Grace; Oh! Strong Impassioned Arms. (Oh! Silent Moon, What Secrets Do You Hide!) The Warm Red Lips Of Thirsting Love On Cheek And Brow Were Pressed; As The Bees Know Where Honeys Grow, They Sought Her Mouth, Her Breast. (Oh! The Dead Moon Holds Many A Dead Delight.) The Speaker Stirred And Gruffly Spake, "Come, Wife, Where Have You Been?" She Whispered Low, "Dear God, I Go - But 'Tis The Seventh Sin." (Oh! The Sad Secrets Of That Orb Of White.)