I have written this day down in my heart 
As the sweetest day in the season; 
From all of the others I've set it apart--- 
But I will not tell you the reason, 
That is my secret---I must not tell; 
But the skies are soft and tender, 
And never before, I know full well, 
Was the earth so full of splendour.

I sing at my labour the whole day long, 
And my heart is as light as a feather; 
And there is a reason for my glad song 
Besides the beautiful weather. 
But I will not tell it to you; and though 
That thrush in the maple heard it, 
And would shout it aloud if he could, I know 
He hasn't the power to word it.

Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one 
Who told me the sweetest stories, 
He said I had stolen my hair from the sun, 
And my eyes from the morning glories. 
Grandmother says that I must not believe 
A word men say, for they flatter; 
But I'm sure he would never try to deceive, 
For he told me---but there---no matter!

Last night I was sad, and the world to me 
Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling, 
But some one then had not asked me to be--- 
There now! I am almost telling. 
Not another word shall my two lips say, 
I will shut them fast together, 
And never a mortal shall know to-day 
Why my heart is as light as a feather.