I can't tell you — but you feel it —

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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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