| |
|
I tell my
secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who
knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it?
well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose
there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one
wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I
cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the
draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding
and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear
my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to
Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that
blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's and expansive time: yet I don't trust
March
with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its
rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose
flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds
sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to
excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much
cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
|
|
|
