somewhere i have never travelled by e e cummings

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