somewhere 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 will easily 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 color 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