
somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me

though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Somewhere I Have Never Traveled, gladly beyond — e. e. cummings
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Another great post. Everyday I learn a new lesson on this website. Thanks