Secrets. By 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!