somewhere i have never travelled, 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 skilfully, misteriously) 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 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 

/E.E.Cummings.