The world may think the sun’s above the ground.
The hour grows late from Leningrad to Leicester.
To me, however, night is still around
while she is sleeping her mid-day siesta.
But now some sense of day alerts her eyes
and all my dullness gets prepared to flee,
for, lo, I see her flick’ring eyelids rise
and those rich jewels inside them light on me.
Now are the edges of her lips up-curled
like petals reaching to the warming air
and, O, what lustre now ignites my world!
No smiling face was ever made so fair!