Globëd noon that half a-swoon
Discontains its ecstasy, spills its ineffable feast,
And flings about the shining air invisibly a wreath,
Scent of pine and flower and brine
Sweet and sweeter than the breath
Of the Belovèd's mouth.
O but O the city's mood
Restlessly divides my blood
Until the greater half doth crave
All at once to plunge and lave