Classic Poem

I do not seem to have words for you tonight:
Love does not always have things to say.
Love looks at the stars and says nothing,
Love looks in a woman's face or a man's face or a child's face and says nothing,
Love meets love in the consummating equalities of the flesh and the spirit and says nothing,
Love is not less worth while, love is more worth while, because of the silences of love:
I do not seem to have words for you tonight.

I do not seem to have words for you tonight:
It may be that the stars in the skies have words,
It may be that the waves of the sea have words,
It may be that the love I bore you yesterday has words,
It may be that the love I am to bear you tomorrow has words,
It may be that the street has words, and the opera, and the things you enjoy, that all have words,
It may be that the house has words, and the locked doors, and the things you grieve about, that all have words,
It may be that the money you make has words, and the money you lose, that money has wounding or healing words,
It may be that all things but me have words, are voluble, and swear to their loyalty in words,
It may be, it may be: who knows! I am silent here, O so silent, and do not know:
I sit here and regard you and drink you in and have no words to say,
I hear your voice, I see your open arms, I am beckoned by the open door, but I have no words to say,
I read your dear letters, so full of love—they come to me flooding me every day—but I have no words to say,
I feel the invitation of your body and the invitation of your soul, and have no words to say:
Something O so pregnant and certain stops me where I am and closes the exit of words—
The beautiful gate of words is closed, the beautiful gate of love is open,
The meanings of words themselves are washed clean in the silences:
I do not seem to have words for you tonight.

I do not seem to have words for you tonight:
The casual days are so full of words that beg and borrow and steal,
The casual days are so full of words that will not let love alone.
Now the heart is changed—it neither asks nor gives, it just loves,
Now something within me tells me that words must hereafter let love alone,
Now the roots of the tree tell me how well they get along without words,
Now life itself, all of life, and death itself, all of death, tell me how life and death get along without words,
So that I am satisfied to be with you or away from you, my love, without words,
So that I am after all the prisoning agreements of words set free in the worshipful stillness:
I do not seem to have words for you tonight.