VI

Sing at her window, ye heard early wings In whose song joy's self sings! Buzz in her room along her loss of sleep, O small flies, tumble and creep Along the counterpane and on her fingers In mating pairs. She lingers. Along her joined-felt legs a prophecy Creeps like an inward hand. Look how she tarries! Tell her: fear not glee! Come up! Awake! Dress for undressing! Stand! Look how the sun is altogether all! Life hums around her senses petalled close. Come up! Come up! Pleasure must thee befall! Joy to be plucked, O yet ungathered rose!