EVE
Day, with a golden knife, has peeled the Night,Devouring it with red, impatient lips,And he has left, high in the trembling sky,A silver rind. Men think it is the ghostOf the full moon that rose all gloriousTo deck the breast of God. But Eve, who liesSick with delights amidst her broken flowers,Knows it to be the shred of that bright fruitThe Tree of Knowledge yielded in the dark.
