The old days are almost forgotten:
With mechanical precision
The planets obey their orbits—
No longer are they gods overwrought
With immortal human lusts, and so
Moon no longer runs from the sun;
No longer does she run as from
An ardently seeking lover.
Still, though, the moon washes over us
As she bathes us with her silver light,
And still it seems she sorrows when
She falls from the blood-red sky.

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Not a final draft, by any means, but just feeling it out.