What notion now is clotted in your head?
Vine:
I've seen the moon; it has nigh broke my heart.
Sollers:
Not the moon too jumping out of her ways?
Vine:
No, no;--but going quietly and shining,
Pushing away a flimsy gentle cloud
That would drift smoky round her, fending it off
With steady rounds of blue and yellow light.
It was not much to see. She was no more
Than a curved bit of silver rind. But I
Never before so noted her--
Sollers:
What he said,
The dowser!
Merrick:
Ay, about his yellowhammers.
Sollers:
And there's a kind of stifle in the air
Already!
Merrick:
It seems to me, my breathing goes
All hot down my windpipe, hot as cider
Mulled and steaming travels down my swallow.
Sollers:
And a queer racing through my ears of blood.
Merrick:
I wonder, is the star come closer still?
Sollers:
O, close, I know, and viciously heading down.
Vine:
She was so silver! and the sun had left
A kind of tawny red, a dust of fine
Thin light upon the blue where she was lying,--
Just a curled paring of the moon, amid
The faint grey cloud that set the gleaming wheel
Around the tilted slip of shining silver.
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