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 overhead 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 and axiom,
What sorcery had snow?

So keep your secret, father!
I woulod not, if i could,
Know what the sapphire fellows do,
In your new-fashioned world!