Classic Poem

You do not know me wholly. Never ask
To lift the smiling shell of my disguise.
Even should I consent your questing eyes
Would come no nearer than another mask.
Aye, if for love of you, I should permit
Your hands to strip me, husk on husk, away,
Until at last, triumphant, you might say,
" This — this is he, shorn of all counterfeit! "
And saying, shudder, wince — and turn aside
From the pale, cringing mockery I call
Myself — a thing to pity or deride —
Still would remain the last disguise of all:
The mask I dare not lift, lest it confess
Only a black abysm of nothingness.