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The Skies can’t keep their secret!
They tell it to the Hills –
The Hills just tell the Orchards –
And they — the Daffodils!
A Bird — by chance — that goes that way –
Soft overhears the whole –
If I should bribe the little Bird –
Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won’t — however –
It’s finer — not to know –
If Summer were an Axiom –
What sorcery had Snow?
So keep your secret — Father!
I would not — if I could,
Know what the Sapphire Fellows, do,
In your new-fashioned world!
If I could bribe them by a Rose
I’d bring them every flower that grows
From Amherst to Cashmere!
I would not stop for night, or storm –
Or frost, or death, or anyone –
My business were so dear!
If they would linger for a Bird
My Tambourin were soonest heard
Among the April Woods!
Unwearied, all the summer long,
Only to break in wilder song
When Winter shook the boughs!
What if they hear me!
Who shall say
That such an importunity
May not at last avail?
That, weary of this Beggar’s face –
They may not finally say, Yes –
To drive her from the Hall?
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Her — “last Poems” –
Poets — ended –
Silver — perished — with her Tongue –
Not on Record — bubbled other,
Flute — or Woman –
So divine –
Not unto its Summer — Morning
Robin — uttered Half the Tune –
Gushed too free for the Adoring –
From the Anglo-Florentine –
Late — the Praise –
‘Tis dull — conferring
On the Head too High to Crown –
Diadem — or Ducal Showing –
Be its Grave — sufficient sign –
Nought — that We — No Poet’s Kinsman –
Suffocate — with easy woe –
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom –
Put Her down — in Italy?
