APRIL - An altered look about the hills
An altered look about the hills; / A Tyrian light the village fills;
I CAN'T tell you, but you feel it
❦
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!
More poems by Emily Dickinson
Upon the gallows hung a wretch
Upon the gallows hung a wretch, / Too sullied for the hell
THE butterfly obtains
THE butterfly obtains / But little sympathy,
I'm nobody! Who are you?
I'm nobody! Who are you? / Are you nobody, too?