She, then, like snow in a dark night,
 Fell secretly. And the world waked
 With dazzling of the drowsy eye,
 So that some muttered 'Too much light',
 And drew the curtains close.
 Like snow, warmer than fingers feared,
 And to soil friendly;
 Holding the histories of the night
 In yet unmelted tracks.

What I love about this poem is the way the syllables fall so gently, almost drifting into place, and the way (almost miraculous) in which Graves manages to carry through the metaphor - conjuring up the image of a woman with soft fingers and half thawed eyes. I’m not sure that I really understand what Graves is saying here; I only know that it sounds right and so incredibly fragile that I’m almost afraid to breathe while I’m reading it.

— Aseem