THE SINGLE HOUND.
41
XXXIX.
I CAN'T tell you, but you feel it—
Nor can you tell me,
Saints with vanished 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!"
