Long Afteryears
They will say then — in those long afteryears
When you and I are dead and gone with those
Who knew us most — then they, (or some), will say
“He just pretended that he had no words
To speak his heart to you, merely to win
Your sympathetic acquiescence to
His overbearing, selfish interests!”.
And they will say: “Read in his poetry —
And in his letters, (where they have survived) —
How he gave full expression to his thoughts
With unmistakeable effectiveness!.
He had the words, but he preferred to build
A myth of bashful speechlessness, solely to lend
Some pale-faced pathos to his literary art!
But we both knew the truth of it; the rows,
Misunderstandings and despairs, provoked
By my evasive incoherences,
My lack of confidence, the things unsaid
When just a few kind words would have sufficed
To heal the breach, eliminate the doubts,
Explain the problems and avoid the pains.
I did not choose to be so difficult,
So diffident, so tactless, so remisss
In all the social graces. We both knew
How hard it was for you to understand
The depths of my concern; and we both knew
The difference between my written words of love
And what my unforced tongue had better said itself!.
When writing poetry and letters, I
Could scrap the faulty phrase, replace weak words,
Polish poor sentences, until they said
Precisely what I wished; no more, no less!.
(What lies un-said may be as vital as
What is!). The long-considered speech
Has not the spontaneity of love,
However skilful its persuasiveness.
The very art involved demeans its worth
And lends suspicion that it substitutes
Mere sonorous expression for the truth.
So, if I’d had the verbal confidence,
I’d not had need to write my love for you upon
These silent pages of ambiguous design!.
Immoderate in tone — when pressed to say,
(Without rehearsal), what I really meant —
I much offended you and overwhelmed
With sharp, sarcastic wit and erudite
Allusions, which weren’t the words that either
You or I preferred. The curt remarks, wrong-
Stressed emphases, equivocations, puns
And verbalised gymnastics that filled my
Afflicted conversation, could not else
But fail to shew conviction when I spoke,
(Under your promptings!), of my love for you.
You could not be expected to believe
Such a conglomeration of inept, inapt
Inelegances which I could not justify!.
So — when they say, in those long afteryears,
“He just pretended that he had no words
To speak his heart to you!” — we two will know
They are mistaken; but they will not sense
How well we understood how much my lack
Of sensitive, spontaneous, assured
Vocal expression brought us such despair,
Misunderstandings and heart-wringing griefs.
They will not comprehend how my fierce love
Seemed far too dangerous to be released,
In unpremeditated words, to maul
Your sensibilities and wound your trust.
We know I could not tell you how I truly felt —
Except in writing — and that was not good enough!.
