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 -let the world say "his most wise music stole nothing from death"- you only will create (who are so perfectly alive)my shame: lady through whose profound an