Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - second series (1891).djvu/143

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HE skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills — The hills just tell the orchards — And they the daffodils!

A bird, by chance, that goes that way Soft overheard the whole. If I should bribe the little bird, Who knows but she would tell?

I think I won't, however, It's finer not to know; If summer were an axiom, What sorcery had snow?

So keep your secret, Father! I would not, if I could, Know what the sapphire fellows do, In your new-fashioned world!