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 skillfully, 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 something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

I shall make a song like your hair . . . . 
gold-woven with shadows green-tinged, 
And I shall play with my song 
As my fingers might play with your hair.
Deep in my heart
I shall play with my song of you, 
Gently . . . . 
I shall laugh
At its sensitive lustre . . . 
I shall wrap my song in a blanket, 
Blue like your eyes are blue 
With tiny shots of silver. 
I shall wrap it caressingly, 
Tenderly . . . . 
I shall sing a lullaby
To the song I have made 
Of your hair and eyes . . . 
And you will never know 
That deep in my heart
I shelter a song of you
Secretly . . . . 

It's all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget
Some one the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.