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