Classic Poem

Prisoner there,
I would bring you —
what is it? —
no, midnight between us,
scarce any feeling can find you.
Ah, I have a light in me —
where is the light in me? —
and you have a light in you —
but the corridor —
however I call or you yearn,
is there a corridor?
I could sneak you a thought —
would the gaoler see a thought? —
which might reach — what is it? —
the chink in you?
Even so,
what thought has a body,
knees, arms, hands, a mouth? —
has thought a body, can thought touch thought? —
nor can I find the chink in me —
have I a chink in me?
Prisoner there,
sing you to yourself,
sing I to myself —
let this be our courtship!
Nay, I came from the cell of a woman once —
she had a light in her —
she had a corridor —
she sneaked me out to me —
was the gaoler away?
Even so,
what body has a thought
to remember that? —
or how it was done? —
or how to do it again?
Were I mother to myself;
could I do it? —
ah, were I mother to myself
and you father to yourself —
is that our corridor?
Prisoner there — look —
can you see from where you are? —
have you a sorrow? —
is that your sorrow,
silver hood and silver cloak,
delicate hands and dainty feet,
dancing a slow step with mine? —
what a happy movement now —
one can fairly hear a gigue!
Or has that fop of a moon
come through a flimsy cloud,
like a rider through a hoop,
for another caprice with the stars?
Even so,
cannot ever sorrows meet?