You are white as the moths of Twilight,

You are secret as mist and dew,

And your down-dropped eyes

Are eternally wise,

Strange sins have wrought their hue.

Mother of men and women,

They are ghosts, not men you have bred;

In infinite scorn

Their bodies were born

While their souls were worse than dead.

We are what your lips have made us,

Empty, and bitterly old;

Our faith has lied,

Oh, barren bride,

And the fires of the world are cold.