I will go up the mountain after the Moon:

She is caught in a dead fir-tree.

Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl,

Like a great pale apple is she.

I will leap and will clasp her in quick cold hands

And carry her home in my sack.

I will set her down safe on the oaken bench

That stands at the chimney-back.

And then I will sit by the fire all night,

And sit by the fire all day.

I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart’s delight,

Till I gnaw her slowly away.

And while I grow mad with the Moon’s cold taste,

The World may beat on my door,

Crying “Come out!” and crying “Make haste!

And give us the Moon once more!”

But I will not answer them ever at all;

I will laugh, as I count and hide

the great black beautiful seeds of the Moon

In a flower-pot deep and wide.

Then I will lie down and go fast asleep,

Drunken with flame and a swoon.

But the seeds will sprout, and the seeds will leap:

The subtle swift seeds of the Moon.

And some day, all of the world that beats

And cries at my door, shall see

A thousand moon-leaves sprout from my thatch

On a marvelous white Moon-tree!

Then each shall have moons to his heart’s desire:

Apples of silver and pearl:

Apples of orange and copper fire,

Setting his five wits swirl.

And then they will thank me, who mock me now:

“Wanting the Moon is he!”

Oh, I’m off to the mountain after the Moon,

Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree!

(Applause)