Moonrise
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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 paradisaical 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 quite utterly.This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily,Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.
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