VIII
I have not told my garden yet,Lest that should conquer me;I have not quite the strength nowTo break it to the bee.
I will not name it in the street,For shops would stare, that I,So shy, so very ignorant,Should have the face to die.
The hillsides must not know it,Where I have rambled so,Nor tell the loving forestsThe day that I shall go,
Nor lisp it at the table,Nor heedless by the wayHint that within the riddleOne will walk to-day!