Harry Crosby (4 June 1898 - 10 December 1929 / Boston, Massachusetts)

Moon of leaves,
Moon of the falling leaves,
To you I bring the slippers
of the sun.
That you may dance upon the
floor of sun,
My lady carries sun within her eyes.
Moon of the Unrevealed,
Moon of the gold-encrusted shield,
To you I bring the fragment
of my prayer.

Moon of the crinkled hair,
Tell me, will my lady yield
Eyes and mouth and breasts unsealed?
Will my lady yield?

Moon of the yellow streaked with red,
Moon that the sun would lead to bed,
Moon with the death's head
More than dead,
Why do you frighten the Goddess of Love,
Whose frail white fingers are moving above
The lover's white body lost in his love?
Moon, you are more than dead.

Moon of the ermine loist in the snow,
Moon of the frozen furbelow,
Moon of the nothingness here below,
Moon, you must go.

It is the Sun that tells you so-
Moon, you must go.

And I was dark beneath the moon,
And you were dark beneath the moon,
And we were dark beneath the moon.

Now I am gold beneath the sun,
Now you are gold beneath the sun,
Now we are gold beneath the Sun.