AT MOONRISE
The first man, finding he could stand erect,Crept from his rocky cavern and looked outOne night, to where there hung across the skyThe great and golden circle of the moon.Black were the fir-trees on the jagged hill,Black were the valleys where huge monsters movedGrunting and shuffling, hissing in the darkLit here and there by yellow glint of eyesOr flash of fangs that dripped each other's blood . . .
Half crouching at the entrance of the cave,Clutching his weapon in his hairy hand,With small red eyes and sagging underlip,He felt a strangeness stir within his breastThat knew brute love and hunger and hot thirst,But had not pulsed before to vague regretsFor some pale Eden of high sentimentThat means not clinging limbs, but fusing souls. . .
He saw the moon-bloom on the empty crags:He smelled the moist perfumes the moon-ray found,He saw it reach the waters like a spear. . .Then he wheeled suddenly and weeping, soughtThe shadow with his face turned to the wall. . .
