Les Heures claires, VIII

As in the guileless, golden age, my heart
I gave thee, even like an ample flower
That opens in the dew's bright morning hour;
My lips have rested where the frail leaves part.

I plucked the flower--it came
From meadows whereon grow the flowers of flame:
Speak to it not--'tis best that we control
Words, since they needs are trivial 'twixt us two;
All words are hazardous, for it is through
The eyes that soul doth hearken unto soul.

That flower that is my heart, and where secure
My heart's avowal hides.
Simply confides
Unto thy lips that she is clear and pure.
Loyal and good--and that one's trust toward
A virgin love is like a child's in God.

Let wit and wisdom flower upon the height,
Along capricious paths of vanity;
And give we welcome to sincerity,
That holds between her fingers crystal-bright
Our two clear hearts: for what so beautiful
As a confession made from soul to soul.
When eve returns
And the white flame of countless diamonds burns.
Like myriads of silent eyes intent,
Th' unfathomed silence of the firmament.