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 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