The White Goddess of the Moon
Fairer than her own cool evening cape
Waxes full into a gray craven hag
Burying her head in her black hood.
Her skull’s growing scimitar hangs
Like a melted candle of silver.
Even in her most brimming moment
As the ovum bursts forth within the womb
So dashes across the white-gold disk
That dark sharp silhouette of doom.
Withered, waning, the burning moon’s
Quick wick is extinguished with the crescent
Leaving cold new moon in slumber bunting.