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e. e. cummings1931
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly 

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, 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