II
And will she never rise again?
The Holy Moon? Oh, never more!
Perhaps along the inhuman shore
Where pale ghosts are
Beyond the low lethean fen
She and some wide infernal star....
To us who loved her never more,
The Moon will never rise again.
Oh! never more in nightly sky
Her eye so high shall peep and pry
To see the great world rolling by.
For why?
The Moon is dead. I saw her die.
THE HAPPY JOURNALIST
I love to walk about at night
By nasty lanes and corners foul,
All shielded from the unfriendly light
And independent as the owl.
By dirty grates I love to lurk;
I often stoop to take a squint
At printers working at their work.
I muse upon the rot they print.
The beggars please me, and the mud:
The editors beneath their lamps
As—Mr Howl demanding blood,
And Lord Retender stealing stamps,
And Mr Bing instructing liars,
His elder son composing trash;
Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers)
Refusing anything but cash.
I like to think of Mr Meyers,
I like to think of Mr Bing.
I like to think about the liars:
It pleases me, that sort of thing.
Policemen speak to me, but I,
Remembering my civic rights,
Neglect them and do not reply.
I love to walk about at nights!
At twenty-five to four I bunch
Across a cab I can’t afford.
I ring for breakfast after lunch.
I am as happy as a lord!