Teeth of flowers, hairnet of dew,
Hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
Prepare the earthly sheets for me
And the down quilt of weeded moss.
I am going to sleep, my nurse, put me to bed.
Set a lamp at my headboard;
A constellation; whatever you like;
All are good: lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: you hear the buds breaking through. . .
A celestial foot rocks you from above
And a bird traces a pattern for you
So you’ll forget. . . Thank you. Oh, one request:
If he telephones again
Tell him not to keep trying for I have left. . .