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Poem	I have written this day down in my heart As the sweetest day in the season; From all of the others I've set it apart--- But I will not tell you the reason, That is my secret---I must not tell; But the skies are soft and tender, And never before, I know full well, Was the earth so full of splendour. I sing at my labour the whole day long, And my heart is as light as a feather; And there is a reason for my glad song Besides the beautiful weather. But I will not tell it to you; and though That thrush in the maple heard it, And would shout it aloud if he could, I know He hasn't the power to word it. Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one Who told me the sweetest stories, He said I had stolen my hair from the sun, And my eyes from the morning glories. Grandmother says that I must not believe A word men say, for they flatter; But I'm sure he would never try to deceive, For he told me---but there---no matter! Last night I was sad, and the world to me Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling, But some one then had not asked me to be--- There now! I am almost telling. Not another word shall my two lips say, I will shut them fast together, And never a mortal shall know to-day Why my heart is as light as a feather.
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