A POET writ a song of May 
 That checked his breath awhile; 
He kept it for a summer day, 
 Then spake with half a smile: 
 
?Oh, little song of purity,
 Of mystic to-and-fro, 
You are so much a part of me 
 I dare not let you go.? 
 
And so he made a sister-song 
 With more of cunning art;
But held the first his whole life long 
 Deep hidden in his heart.