We lay at twilight on the hill
And saw the citron gold of sunset drain,
Delicate as the sunsets of Cocaigne,
From heavens green and still.

Till fallen Venus burned to rose
We lay, and round us lay the lapsing world,
Low vales and hills in dusky velvet furled
That rimmed us with repose.

Above, was naught except the night
And all the stars, like pulses of white fire;
And our dark veins, fulfilled of long desire,
Pulsed with the pulsing light.