some ask praise of their fellows but i being otherwise made compose curves and yellows, angles or silences to a less erring end) myself is sculptor of your body’s idiom: the musician of your wrists; the poet who is afraid only to mistranslate a rhythm in your hair, (your fingertips the way you move) the painter of your voice-- beyond these elements remarkably nothing is. . . . therefore,lady am i content should any by me carven thing provoke your gesture possibly or any painting(for its own reason)in your lips slenderly should create one least smile (shyly if a poem should lift to me the distinct country of your eyes, gifted with green twilight) IX supposing i dreamed this) only imagine, when day has thrilled you are a house around which i am a wind-- your walls will not reckon how strangely my life is curved since the best he can do is to peer through windows, unobserved --listen, for(out of all things)dream is noone’s fool; if this wind who i am prowls carefully around this house of you love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark if light should flower: or laughing sparkle from the shut house(around and around which a poor wind will roam X you are like the snow only purer fleeter, like the rain only sweeter frailer you whom certain flowers ressemble but trembling(cowards which fear to miss within your least gesture the hurting skill which lives)and since nothing lingers beyond a little instant, along with rhyme and with laughter O my lady (and every brittle marvelous breathing thing) since i and you are on our ways to dust of your fragility (but chiefly of your smile, most suddenly which is of love and death a marriage)you give me courage so that against myself the sharp days slobber in vain: Nor am i afraid that this, which we call autumn, cleverly dies and over the ripe world wanders with a near and careful smile in his mouth(making everything suddenly old and with his awkward eyes pushing sleep under and thoroughly into all beautiful things) winter, whom Spring shall kill XI because you go away i give roses who will advise even yourself, lady in the most certainly(of what we everywhere do not touch)deep things; remembering ever so tinily these, your crisp eyes actually shall contain new faeries (and if your slim lips are amused, no wisest