I've had enough of little men Who dreamed the opaque moon caroused, Who drain their whiskey dram, and then Refuse the frenzy such dreams arouse. The silent moon herself's a huntress Dipping her naked step through branch and leaf With wild white wide eyes, Her hunter's bow taut with grief. I've had enough of townhall edicts, The bartered brag of big men's boasts, And charming ladies' difficult minuets, And every matter that's matter-of-fact. Now I follow the silver leer of the moon That pours in silence along a midnight stream Over rocky Cumberland Gap, and soon To the remotest forest of a dream. And there, piled pelts of fine sleek rabbits, And there, a trusty hunting dog, And there no human scourges traffic, And there, the Kentucky of God.