In the dark deep winter, through the coldness and the rain,
Through the stilly airless nights of June;
Still we wander evermore, calling in our pain,
Crying, always crying for the moon.

Still she rolls above us, lonely, mystical, apart,
Still we lift our longing up on high.
Oh the moon, the faithless moon to which we gave our heart,
Shining, coldly shining in the sky.

What's the use of crying when the moon is out of reach,
Smiling down serenely calm and bright?
Does she ever listen to the little human speech,
Sobbing, sadly sobbing in the night?

Kings and queens and palaces wither to decay,
All the world is old and out of tune,
But the men and women still waste the years away
Crying, ever crying for the moon.