If I have made, my lady, intricate br imperfect various things chiefly which wrong br your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail) br songs less firm than your body's whitest song br upon my mind - if I have failed to snare br the glance too shy - if through my singing slips br the very skillful strangeness of your smile br the keen primeval silence of your hair br br - let the world say "his most wise music stole br nothing from death" - br you will only create br (who are so perfectly alive) my shame: br lady whose profound and fragile lips br the sweet small clumsy feet of April came br br into the ragged meadow of my soul.