Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self!
Here in London, yonder late in Florence,145
Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured.
Curving on a sky imbrued with color,
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight,
Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth.
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato,150
Rounder 'twixt the cypresse
COPYRIGHT(©) 2022
