At last the secret is out

At last the secret is out as it always must come in the end. The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend. Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire. Still water run deep, my dear. There's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links. Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks. Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migrane and the sigh... there is always another story. There is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high above the convent hall. the scent of the elder bushes. The sporting prints in the hall. The croquet matches in summer. The handshake. The cough. The kiss.

There is always a wicked secret...a private reason for this.

(At last the secret is out: Wystan Hugh Auden, 1907 - 1973)