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!