I speak to you in tender tones and low,
My face concealed by night but not my heart,
For somehow, darling, I want you to know
All things about me, yet I cannot start.
I cannot say to you, "I am like this,"
And draw a graphic portrait of my soul.
I tell you less in words than in one kiss,
And yet, my giving to you is not whole.
We talk for hours and hours quietly
And speak of things that have no real value,
But though our words are few, you know of me
All possible, and I also know you.
'Tis not through words alone we understand;
Sometimes I sense more when I touch your hand.

1957