Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 The skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills - The hills just tell the orchards - And they the daffodils! 
 A bird, by chance, that goes that way Soft overheard the whole. If I should bribe the little bird, Who knows but she would tell? 
 I think I won't, however, It's finer not to know; If summer were an axiom, What sorcery had snow? 
 So keep your secret, Father! I would not, if I could, Know what the sapphire fellows do, In your new-fashioned world!