The Insulted Moon
O moon our ancestors discreetly praised,
Out of the high blue country, where the stars,
Your harem, trail their elegant arrays,
Old Cynthia, lamp of these lairs of ours,
Do you see lovers on their thriving beds,
Their bright teeth flashing as they snore away?
Frustrated poets buffeting their heads?
Or ardent vipers writhing in the hay?
With padded foot, behind your yellow mask,
From sunset to the dawn, do you pursue
Endymion's pale charms, as formerly?
-'Child of this wretched century, I see
Your mother towards her mirror lean a mass
Of years, rouging the teat that nourished you!'
Přeložil James McGowan