The Moon is dead. I saw her die. 
She in a drifting cloud was drest, 
She lay along the uncertain west, 
A dream to see. 

And very low she spake to me : 
" I go where none may understand, 
I fade into the nameless land, 
And there must lie perpetually." 

And therefore I, 
And therefore loudly, loudly I 
And high 
And very piteously make cry: 
"The Moon is dead. I saw her die." 

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.