(1757 - 1827)
some where
some where i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have thier silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i can not 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, mysteriosly) her first rose
or if your wish is 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 fraility: whose texture
compels me with the color of it's 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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