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.