VII

Now is she risen. Look how she looks down, After her slow down-slid night-gown, On her unspotted while of nakedness Save where the beast's difference from her white frame Hairily triangling black below doth shame Her to-day's sight of it, till the caress Of the chemise cover her body. Dress! Stop not, sitting upon the bed's hard edge, Stop not to wonder at by-and-bye, nor guess! List to the rapid birds i'th' window ledge! Up, up and washed! Lo! she is up half-gowned, For she lacks hands to have power to button fit The white symbolic wearing, and she's found By her maids thus, that come to perfect it.