I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: <br />The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, <br />Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless, <br />Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain; <br /> <br />A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite utterly. <br />This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily, <br />Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.<br /><br />Gerard Manley Hopkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moonrise/
