noone, not even the rain

ee cummings once said
"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit."

Tonight I don't want to think of war. Tonight I don't want to think of pain, and sadness, and hunger and death. I don't want to think of statutes, and cases, and neverending notes. I just want to sit and enjoy the silence. I think tonight of what Oscar Wilde once said, that "Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace." Yes, tonight I want to read something, not because I have to, nor because it will afford me any tangible benefit; But, just for its own sake. For its beauty, and its poetry, and its simplicity and truth. To appreciate it. To sink slowly into its soft sweet rivers of emotion, and feel the shivers run down my spine. The aftertaste of its meaning lingering upon my tongue, the scent of its words clinging to my skin. I'm so sick of objectivity, impartiality and sensibility!

some ee 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 skillfully,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