What Semiramis Said

 THE moon's a steaming chalice, 
Of honey and venom-wine.
 
A little of it sipped by night 
Makes the long hours divine.
 
But oh, my reckless lovers, 
They drain the cup and wail, 
Die at my feet with shaking limbs 
And tender lips all pale.
 
Above them in the sky it bends 
Empty and gray and dead.
 
To-morrow night 'tis full again, 
Golden, and foaming red.

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