Somehwere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
Any 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 skilfully, 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 everywhere descending;
Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
The power of your intense fragility: 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 you 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.
