A big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,
Star-spiders spinning their thread 
Hang high suspended, withouten respite
Watching us overhead.
Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths Curtain us in so dark That here we’re safe from even the ermin-moth’s Flitting remark.
Here in this swarthy, secret tent, Where black boughs flap the ground, You shall draw the thorn from my discontent, Surgeon me sound.
This rare, rich night! For in here Under the yew-tree tent The darkness is loveliest where I could sear You like frankincense into scent.
Here not even the stars can spy us, Not even the white moths write With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us And set us affright.
Kiss but then the dust from off my lips, But draw the turgid pain From my breast to your bosom, eclipse My soul again.
Waste me not, I beg you, waste Not the inner night: Taste, oh taste and let me taste The core of delight.

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