Poem VIII.

A murmur in the trees to note,
  Not loud enough for wind;
A star not far enough to seek,
  Nor near enough to find;

A long, long yellow on the lawn,
  A hubbub as of feet;
Not audible, as ours to us,
  But dapperer, more sweet;

A hurrying home of little men
  To houses unperceived, --
All this, and more, if I should tell,
  Would never be believed.

Of robins in the trundle bed
  How many I espy
Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
  Although I heard them try!

But then I promised ne'er to tell;
  How could I break my word?
So go your way and I'll go mine, --
  No fear you'll miss the road.





