somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
and experience, your eyes have their silence;
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully every where descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense frailty:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about your that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
