Take me across the mirror-waters;
the silver ring in the quagmire
as a dewdrop on a reed
glazes the twilight into morning.
Seize me like a sickness,
for mornings do not comfort me
or antiphons, the birds' motets,
but the steps with which you lift
my image free, and a drop of water;
your knee circles in my thighs like a planet;
take me across the mirror-waters.