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