The problems that I have are not quite real
If they remain unwhispered in your ear;
That's not, alas, to say they disappear,
But rather that they linger on my reel
And cannot be pulled in, and so they feel
More desperately vicious, cause more fear,
And hurt me more, because they are more queer,
More out of joint, so that I cannot deal.
But when I speak to you, the cares all lift;
I know them and I feel them properly
So I can tell just how they threaten me,
And give them in the knowledge proper shrift.
So when untold my fears are but undead,
Which told to you can truly die instead.
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