If I Have Made, My Lady, Intricate (ee cummings)

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 and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.

(I envy no poem or poet as much as this.
To the spirit of ee cummings: How much do you feel this poem? Is she singular, the ultimate, or just another of many that you are similarly disposed to? I ask because I truly feel this, know most perfectly of whom you speak; that you find this woman first do you love her the most? I have many good poems, thoughts, some acerbic wit perhaps, what would interest you? What I see as the pearl most precious is, perhaps, just one on the string for you. A barter? A duel, spirit to spirit, the time honored way? That I would read this to her as mine, that would make her mine, for this any other. Any or all, choose and let us be done with the negotiation. I interpret your silence as acceptance.)