Poetry Archives

When April bends above me
 And finds me fast asleep,
Dust need not keep the secret
 A live heart died to keep.

When April tells the thrushes,
 The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
 To all the winds that blow.

Above his roof the swallows,
 In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
 Beside his window-pane.

O sparrow, little sparrow,
 When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
 That I have died to keep.