A voice wrapped in shawls and veils playfully refuses to share a secret. She’s cheerful but firm: today is far too cold and blustery to let any draughts in, and we are far too curious. The whole conversation feels like a sly game. She even hints there may be no secret at all—just a bit of fun at our expense. The winter wraps become a metaphor for emotional privacy; she keeps warm by keeping things hidden, and she won’t poke her nose out to be pecked at by every wind. Distrusting spring’s dust and sudden frosts, she imagines telling only on some unimaginably perfect, drowsy summer day—and you can tell she’ll simply move the goalposts again. The mood is light and flirtatious, full of the quiet pleasure of withholding. There’s no real sting; instead, the poem delights in the idea that a secret’s whole charm is never being told.
Winter: My Secret — Summary
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not today; 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. Today'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 thro' my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping thro' 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 and 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 thro' 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.