I Can't Tell You-but You Feel It
Emily Dickinson
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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