Poemas ingleses/VI

Sing at her window, ye heard early wings Buzz in her room along her loss of sleep, In whose song joy's self sings! 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 Joy to be plucked, O yet ungathered rose! Come up! Come up! Pleasure must thee befall! Life hums around her senses petalled close. Look how the sun is altogether all! Come up! Awake! Dress for undressing! Stand! Look how she tarries! Tell her: fear not glee! Creeps like an inward hand.