I AWOKE in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe ' of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, ' lovely in waning but lustreless, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, ' of dark Maenefa the mountain; A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, ' entangled him, not quit utterly. This was the prized, the desirable sight, ' unsought, presented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, ' eyelid and eyelid of slumber. |