I have written this day down in my heart br As the sweetest day in the season; br From all of the others I've set it apart--- br But I will not tell you the reason, br That is my secret---I must not tell; br But the skies are soft and tender, br And never before, I know full well, br Was the earth so full of splendour. br br I sing at my labour the whole day long, br And my heart is as light as a feather; br And there is a reason for my glad song br Besides the beautiful weather. br But I will not tell it to you; and though br That thrush in the maple heard it, br And would shout it aloud if he could, I know br He hasn't the power to word it. br br Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one br Who told me the sweetest stories, br He said I had stolen my hair from the sun, br And my eyes from the morning glories. br Grandmother says that I must not believe br A word men say, for they flatter; br But I'm sure he would never try to deceive, br For he told me---but there---no matter! br br Last night I was sad, and the world to me br Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling, br But some one then had not asked me to be--- br There now! I am almost telling. br Not another word shall my two lips say, br I will shut them fast together, br And never a mortal shall know to-day br Why my heart is as light as a feather.