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 menTo houses unperceived,—All this, and more, if I should tell,Would never be believed.
Of robins in the trundle bedHow many I espyWhose 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.