Perfection

I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many, but I love none better than you.

I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have talked of nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None have found you perfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
Some seek to subordinate you—I only am she who will never consent to subordinate you; I only am she who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumbered upon yourself all your life; Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time.

Underneath you, and within you, I see you.
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the flippant expression, the accustomed routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me.

I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.