XC

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.