| somewhere i have never traveled,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 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 everywhere descending; |
| nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals |
| the power of your intense fragility:whose texture |
| compels me with this 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 |
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