Hecate

The moon has a kiss that clings
Like those of cold women whom
Minions with fertile womb
Drive from the bed of Kings.

She weeps her white distress
On spires, and lays a sheet
Of suppliant light at the feet
Of crosses pitiless.

But breaks her prayer, which is vain,
And raises herself again,
In pale and barren pride;

And casts, with the cruel glance
Of her lidless eye, far and wide
Hysteric radiance.