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 will easily unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always 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 wills hut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which are to be percieved in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility; whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
renderind 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

~lovely poem don't you think?

The first time I'd heard part of it was in this song:

The First Time I loved Forever
(Lisa Angelle, fr. Beauty and the Beast)

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

The first time I loved forever
Was when you whispered my name
And I knew at once you loved me
For the me of who I am

The first time I loved forever
I cast all else aside
And I bid my heart to follow
Be there no more need to hide

And if wishes and dreams are merely for children
And if love's a tale for fools
I'll live the dream with you

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life wills hut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

For all my life and forever
There's a truth I will always know
When my world divides and shatters
Your love is where I'll go

(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