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!