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 to be close to 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

                                       e e cummings