Winter: My Secret.

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:     Perhaps some day, who knows?     But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,     And you're too curious: fie!     You want to hear it? well:     Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.     Or, after all, perhaps there's none:     Suppose there is no secret after all,     But only just my fun.     To-day's a nipping day, a biting day;     In which one wants a shawl,     A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:     I cannot ope to every one who taps,     And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;     Come bounding and surrounding me,     Come buffeting, astounding me,     Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.     I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows     His nose to Russian snows     To be pecked at by every wind that blows?     You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,     Believe, but leave that truth untested still.     Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust     March with its peck of dust,     Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,     Nor even May, whose flowers     One frost may wither through the sunless hours.     Perhaps some languid summer day,     When drowsy birds sing less and less,     And golden fruit is ripening to excess,     If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,     And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,     Perhaps my secret I may say,     Or you may guess.