Он сочинял письмо в уме,
Слова ей нежные искал,
Шептал их, сидя на холме,
В тенистой роще, где гулял.
И на песчаном берегу
Набор красивых, гладких фраз
Вынашивал в своем мозгу
Из раза в раз.

Письмо на лист переписал,
Блестел, как шелк, листа атлас,
Читал, и гневался, и рвал,
Опять писал в который раз,
Ночами напролет искал
Причину всех своих прорех,
Он шлифовал текст, обрезал...
И вот успех.

На почту он пришел, и вдруг,
Как вкопанный на месте встал,
Сомнений полон был и мук,
Что с ним, никак не понимал.
Вдруг образ девы потускнел,
Апрель не смог любовь сберечь,
Он рвал письмо, лицом светлел,
Спал камень с плеч.


Confetti in The Wind

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 hekd 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!