The First Song

A POET writ a song of May  
 That checked his breath awhile;  
He kept it for a summer day,  
 Then spake with half a smile:  
 
“Oh, little song of purity,
 Of mystic to-and-fro,  
You are so much a part of me  
 I dare not let you go.”  
 
And so he made a sister-song  
 With more of cunning art;
But held the first his whole life long  
 Deep hidden in his heart.