Poems (Katharine Elizabeth Howard)/It is about those secrets
IT IS ABOUT THOSE SECRETS
My soul, come, if only for a few moments,
Come out of the nebula which surrounds you; be bare,—
You with whom I am intimate yet unacquainted,
You with whom all of my life I have lived.—
But you? Where did you dwell before?
And where will you dwell after?
Yes, my soul, there is the difficult part,—it is about those secrets.
You are sometimes careless while I sleep,
And so I go with you among your reminiscences.
It is about those secrets,—they trouble me.
There i1s no explaining them: when I am awake you are dumb on the subject.
I request you, my soul, either be frank with me,
Freely telling me all, or put a padlock on the door
Of that place where you keep your secrets.
I beg of you, my soul, do not leave the key about where I may find it.
I would not go alone among those secrets of yours,
I need you to interpret them. I like not half knowledge, it disturbs me.
Come out of the nebula which surrounds you; be bare,—
You with whom I am intimate yet unacquainted,
You with whom all of my life I have lived.—
But you? Where did you dwell before?
And where will you dwell after?
Yes, my soul, there is the difficult part,—it is about those secrets.
You are sometimes careless while I sleep,
And so I go with you among your reminiscences.
It is about those secrets,—they trouble me.
There i1s no explaining them: when I am awake you are dumb on the subject.
I request you, my soul, either be frank with me,
Freely telling me all, or put a padlock on the door
Of that place where you keep your secrets.
I beg of you, my soul, do not leave the key about where I may find it.
I would not go alone among those secrets of yours,
I need you to interpret them. I like not half knowledge, it disturbs me.