Moonrise June 19
I awoke in the midsummer not-to-call night, |
in the white and the walk of the morning:
The móon dwíndled and thínned to the frínge |
of a fíngernail héld to the cándle,
Or páring of páradisáïcal frúit, |
lóvely in wáning but lústerless,
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.