Emily Dickinson - 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 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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