He wrote a letter in his mind
 To answer one a maid had sent;
He sought the fitting word to find,
 As on by hill and rill he went.
By bluebell wood and hawthorn lane,
 The cadence sweet and silken phrase
He incubated in his brain
 For days and days.

He wrote his letter on a page
 Of paper with a satin grain;
It did not ring, so in a rage
 He tore it up and tried again.
Time after time he drafted it;
 He polished it all through the night;
He tuned and pruned till bit by bit
 He got it right.

He took his letter to the post,
 Yet long he held it in his hand.
Strangely his mood had veered, almost
 Reversed,--he could not understand.
The girl was vague, the words were vain;
 April romance had come to grief . . .
He tore his letter up again,--
 Oh blest relief!