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 held 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!