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 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 somethi