I have written this day down in my heart
    As the sweetest day in the season;
From all of the others I've set it apart--
    But I will not tell you the reason,
That is my secret--I must not tell;
    But the skies are soft and tender,
And never before, I know full well,
    Was the earth so full of splendor.

I sing at my labour the whole day long,
    And my heart is as light as a feather;
And there is a reason for my glad song
    Besides the beautiful weather.
But I will not tell it to you; and though
    That thrush in the maple heard it,
And would shout it aloud if he could, I know
    He hasn't the power to word it.

Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one
    Who told me the sweetest stories,
He said I had stolen my hair from the sun,
    And my eyes from the morning glories.
Grandmother says that I must not believe
    A word men say, for they flatter;
But I'm sure he would never try to deceive
    For he told me--but there--no matter!

Last night I was sad, and the world to me
    Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling,
But some one then had not asked me to be--
    There now! I am almost telling.
Not another word shall my two lips say,
    I will shut them fast together,
And never a mortal shall know to-day
    Why my heart is as light as a feather.

Poems of Love by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: M.A.Donohue, 1905.

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