somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
In your most frail gestures 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.

*********************

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be--
you or my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then I shall turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

                                                                                 -- e.e. cummings