Poetry

How flows this wild and often hidden stream?
What, but trapped in the body the haunt,
this love of mine, the world cannot see;
maybe should not, a select few souls only
picked for some outward squint and awkwardness.
Do I value you, O abundant spirit, in the thoughts of the world,
where you too often lie, far off, not in me, where I forget you?
O myself!
Myself! Well, I cannot obey that entity and its demands all through;
I must caress and oppress what needs each,
and by each present the world a cankerless flower.
What an outfit to wear! Which does not show
but in the inward of the eyes, and whose soles guide the wearer,
and not the wearer it. And what choice,
that would not misrepresent and slander another I,
and bring to bear a hackneyed and false impression
of a simple side, a mask, a map
for thieves to steal the golden store.
I suggest that I, courageous and wise,
which is securest and tenderest:
thieves and invalids far off and below,
space to step around or step over.