pencil

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I can't tell you -- but you feel it --I can’t tell you — but you feel it –
Nor can you tell me –
Saints, with ravished slate and pencil
Solve our April Day!

Sweeter than a vanished frolic
From a vanished green!
Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen
Round a Ledge of dream!

Modest, let us walk among it
With our faces veiled –
As they say polite Archangels
Do in meeting God!

Not for me — to prate about it!
Not for you — to say
To some fashionable Lady
“Charming April Day”!

Rather — Heaven’s “Peter Parley”!
By which Children slow
To sublimer Recitation
Are prepared to go!

Tho' my destiny be Fustian --Tho’ my destiny be Fustian –
Hers be damask fine –
Tho’ she wear a silver apron –
I, a less divine –

Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil –
And no Reapers stand!

Snow flakes.

Snow flakes.Snow flakes.

I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town,
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down.
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig,
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!

Low at my problem bendingLow at my problem bending,
Another problem comes –
Larger than mine — Serener –
Involving statelier sums.

I check my busy pencil,
My figures file away.
Wherefore, my baffled fingers
They perplexity?