Clothes

Since the earliest days I have dressed myself In fanciful clothes; Trying to satisfy a whispering insistence. There was so much I dared not give To speech or act; So I put romance and fantasy Into my raiment. In that dreamy girlhood My clothes were like my thoughts; Vague and sentimental. They were of misty greens And faded lavenders; Like cloudy colors in entangled woods, Like the budding thoughts of a young girl. Later on when womanhood came, And Motherhood sat consciously on me, I essayed the dignified and noble In a trailing gown of gray. But Spring came, And with it a dress of juicy green And tricky yellows, With darts of black, Like bare twigs showing through the bright leaves. After a while I revelled in the sophistication Of a gown of black; Cut low, swirling in worldly curves. And once I dared the long line of the siren In a gown of weird brocade. But these things have not silenced the whispers. Something urgent wants a tongue. My clothes are not me, myself; Something real escapes in the translation of colour and fabric. I think I should go naked into the streets, And wander unclothed into people's parlours. The incredulous eyes of the bewildered world Might give me back my true image. . . . Maybe in the glances of others I would find out what I really am.