Before the look of you

I fear you, Loveliness;

Before the look of you,

Your far yet intimate face,

My song crumbles in two.

Less am I than a tower;

Or a pool's thin, wrecked gold;

Or great bells loose at dusk;

Or a shepherd and a fold;

Or a few violets —

That straggle April-clear,

Within a tumbled wood

At ending of the year.

Yet spend me at your will;

Yet spend me low and high,

Though I am naught at all;

For if you go, I die!