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 ghost
Of the full moon that rose all glorious
To deck the breast of God.
But Eve, who lies
Sick with delights amidst her broken flowers,
Knows it to be the shred of that bright fruit
The Tree of Knowledge yielded in the dark.
First published in The Australasian, 9 April 1927
