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.