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Poem	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!
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