Emily Dickinson

I Can’T Tell You but You Feel It

poem 65

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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