Teeth of flowers, hair of dew,
hands of herbs, you, fine wet-nurse,
ready the bedsheet of earth for me
and the eiderdown of wild mosses.

I’m going to sleep, my wet-nurse, put me to bed.
Put a light beside my head;
a constellation; whatever you choose;
all are fine; turn the light down a little.

Leave me alone: listen as the buds begin to flower…
from high above a heavenly foot rocks you
and a bird traces some notes

so you may forget…Thank you. Oh, something else!
If he phones me again, tell him
not to persist…that I have gone.