I can't tell you, but you feel it

XXXIX.

ICAN'T tell you, but you feel it—

Nor can you tell me,

Saints with vanished 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 recitations

Are prepared to go!