Emily Dickinson’s speaker catches a faint murmur in the trees, softer than wind, and a star that hovers just beyond finding. She notices a long yellow streak on the lawn and a bustling sound, like dainty feet, too refined for human ears—dapperer, more sweet. It’s the hurrying home of little men to houses nobody sees, a vision so odd she knows it would never be believed. Then she confesses to spotting robins in a trundle bed, their wings peeking out from nightgowns no matter how hard they tried to hide them. But she made a promise to keep quiet. So instead of explaining, she bids us go our own way; she’ll go hers, and there’s no fear we’ll lose the road. The mood is playful and hushed, full of private delight. The reader is left with a sense of having brushed against a hidden, magical world the speaker chooses to protect.
A Murmur in the Trees -- to note — Summary
A Murmur in the Trees -- to note -- Not loud enough -- for Wind -- A Star -- not far enough to seek -- Nor near enough -- to find --
A long -- long Yellow -- on the Lawn -- A Hubbub -- as of feet -- Not audible -- as Ours -- to Us -- But dapperer -- More Sweet --
A Hurrying Home of little Men To Houses unperceived -- All this -- and more -- if I should tell -- Would never be believed --
Of Robins in the Trundle bed How many I espy Whose Nightgowns could not hide the Wings -- Although I heard them try --
But then I promised ne'er to tell -- How could I break My Word? So go your Way -- and I'll go Mine -- No fear you'll miss the Road.