Cummings, e.e.. "Somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond."

 

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 will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers, 

you always open 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 are deeper than all roses) 

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

E.E Cummings

Edward Estlin Cummings (October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962), commonly known as e e cummings or E. E. Cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright.