A TRIFLE
I KNOW not why, but ev’n to me
My songs seem sweet when read to thee.
Perhaps in this the pleasure lies—
I read my thoughts within thine eyes.
And so dare fancy that my art
May sink as deeply as thy heart.
Perhaps I love to make my words
Sing round thee like so many birds,
Or, Maybe, they are only sweet
As they seem offerings at thy feet.
Or haply, Lily, when I speak,
I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,
Or with a yet more precious bliss,
Die on thy red lips in a kiss.
Each reason here—I cannot tell—
Or all perhaps may solve the spell.
But if she watch when I am by,
Lily may deeper see than I.
Henry Timrod.