Cummings

Because he writes about love much better than I can, here's the final stanza to one of my favourite poems:

(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

His equation of rain to hands is so delicate and beautiful. It makes no sense, and yet it's perfect and I understand what he means. Maybe that says something about love too. You don't understand love; you feel it, and you talk about it and describe it in abstractions and fanciful flights of the imagination.