wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom

(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

Hell (by most humble me which shall increase)
open thy fire! for i have had some bliss
of one small lady upon earth above;
to whom i cry, remembering her face,
i have never loved you dear as now i love

if i have made,my lady,intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes(frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind-if i have failed to snare
the glance too shy-if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

lady through whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came
into the ragged meadow of my soul