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