Untitled [Whence cometh such tender rapture?]

Whence cometh such tender rapture?
Those curls—they are not the first ones
I’ve smoothened, and I’ve already
Known lips—that were darker than yours.

The stars have risen and faded,
—Whence cometh such tender rapture?—
And eyes have risen and faded 
In face of these eyes of mine

I’d never yet hearkened unto
Such songs in the depths of darkness,
—Whence cometh such tender rapture?—
My head on the bard’s own breast

Whence cometh such tender rapture?
And what’s to be done with it, artful
Young vagabound, passing minstrel
With lashes—too long to say.

18 February 1916

Poems for Blok, 1

Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips’ quick opening.
Your name—five letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.
A stone thrown into a silent lake
is—the sound of your name.
The light click of hooves at night
—your name.
Your name at my temple
—shrill click of a cocked gun.
Your name—impossible—
kiss on my eyes,
the chill of closed eyelids.
Your name—a kiss of snow.
Blue gulp of icy spring water.
With your name—sleep deepens.