From a Line in Callimachus

Dawn came like a black horse.

I had not slept the night for fear of day.

Now the sunlight crept in cold
and I thought of you:

Your smooth hips, your horseblack tresses,

of how I might lay silent in your arms.
What more could I have asked than that, if not
six pips of a pomegranate
from your soft white hand.