I carry your heart and this poem

I've been thinking a lot about e.e. cumming's "i carry your heart with me." (I strongly suggest you go read it--it's only 15 lines.) Most people think it's a happy love poem and categorize it as such, but I get the feeling that it's a loss poem. What's really the only way to carry someone's heart? Only if they're gone. Otherwise their heart would belong to them. The speaker has the heart of his/her "dear" and his/her own heart--that's two hearts! Someone's missing a heart in this situation.

Furthermore, I think the poem's really about the speaker carrying Death's heart much like he/she would carry his/her lover's, accepting that Death is "the root of the root...of a tree called life." The speaker admits to not fear his/her fate because Death is the ultimate fate for everyone--"(for you are my fate, my sweat)." We all carry eminent death inside our hearts, even if we do not admit it. The title, "i carry your heart with me," is redundant because "i carry" implies possession, which the "with me" restates; thus, our hearts are burdened because we indeed must carry--the word suggesting struggle--Death's presence our entire lives. Death "is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart" because Death eliminates any hope of permanent connection. We have no hope in ever seeing the stars come together while we are alive, something that astronomically would take billions upon billions of years to witness, so in our lifetime we will always see separated stars. The tragedy of the limited human lifespan cheats us out of seeing stars coming together and, more importantly, of seeing our loved ones forever. Finally, Death is "what a moon has always meant" because seeing the moon and night has always meant daytime has fallen, and the sun's warmth and protection is gone. Death and the moon have always meant misery, darkness, coldness, danger, and mystery. A sun will always "sing" Death because people die in their sleep and are discovered the next morning. Daylight reveals Death like it reveals mountains, oceans, rivers, forests, people, and every other object of the natural world. The tone of the poem is not fearful or panicked because the speaker accepts Death as the natural end to all living things, even calling Death "my dear" and "my sweet." It is natural like the moon, the sun, trees and love, and everything else. By the end, the burden of Death is lessened a little in the speaker's heart; the last line, "i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)," suggests that the speaker has accepted his/her inexorable death and resolved to not become trapped or burdened by unhealthy self-awareness that would greatly diminish his/her quality of life. It also triggers, in the reader, the realization that we can ease the burden of dying by accepting our own mortality and moving on.

In other news,

I need to read more poetry. I need to read more anything, really. Recently, my English professor gave me an extension on my research paper because he felt the failing grade I received was not "indicative of my writing ability." It was a huge compliment, and a massive ego boost because, as I think I've stated earlier, he's persnickety about student responsibilities. But I've already come to feel all the sharp shortcomings of my writing as I run his words through my head. I'm not the best writer in the universe, but, oh man, I want to at least become an excellent one. There are countless better writers who work harder than I do and who are much more knowledgeable and practiced. Can I compete? The only way to become great is practice.

But here's an even larger question: Will becoming a great writer make me happy?
For now, at least, it's the best idea I got.