I woke 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 fingernail held to the candle,
Or paring of paradisaical fruit,
                     lovely in waning but lustreless
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow
                     of dark Maenefa the mountain;
A cusp yet 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.