Secrecy

Down the hushed corridors of your dim soul

Lonely I go, and, yearning, pause by each closed door.

They stand so blind, indifferent, while no sound,

No breath escapes to tell me of your more,

Your less; immensities or nothingness.

But there is one apart, close-barred and rusted in,

Shrouded by years, your hand has never moved

To open. Have you heaven in there, or sin?

From all the other secrecies in you,

Despairing, I return to this, and weep and lean. . . .

Here terror of your hiding burns like fire,

The doubt of what will be-and what has been.

G. O. Warren

PINK BLOSSOMS